


Dean Winchester: Monster Fucker

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Case Fic, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Dragons, F/M, Getting Together, Harpies, M/M, Monsterfucker Dean Winchester, Multi, Other, Post-Episode: s13e05 Advanced Thanatology, Season/Series 13, Sirens, Threesome - M/M/M, Vampires, Witch Curses, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Cursed by a fledgling witch-in-training, Dean finds himself in a predicament. Not only is Castiel attempting to crawl into his lap at all hours, but so is every monster he comes across. With no method to reverse the curse other than waiting it out, Dean must come to terms with his budding relationship with Castiel, while also juggling his newly super-active sex life.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Other(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 432
Collections: DCBB 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	Dean Winchester: Monster Fucker

**Author's Note:**

> Note: While Jack is integral to S13 and beyond, he's only mentioned here because I couldn't figure out how to incorporate him given all the hands-in-pants fun going on.

Out of all the times Dean has been hexed in the past, he always felt something. A pinch, or cotton being shoved into his sinuses, or even scalding water being tossed onto his crotch. This time, nothing. Not even a gust of wind or a bolt of lightning to strike him down. All he does is cough and spit dried herbs onto the hardwood floor.

From her spot a few feet away, the witch blinks. Blinks again, when Dean doesn’t apparently burst into flames or explode all over the cabin. “Huh,” she says and flops down into a corduroy armchair. A cloud of dust follows her. “You’re supposed to… be gone, or whatever.”

Kids, honestly. One spell book and they think they’re Marie Laveau. “Nice, very nice,” Dean gripes and scrubs his face of dried bone and—“Jesus Christ, did you mow a lawn or something?”

“It called for dried lavender,” the witch—Chieli, apparently—says, head bowed and looking entirely pitiful. She can’t be more than fifteen, fresh into her coven, with sandy brown hair and round eyes, and the self-confidence of a greyhound with mange. “I just… couldn’t find anything fresh, so I bought some at the store.”

“Spellwork is an exact science,” Castiel says, sword lowered. He sets it on the coffee table before sitting opposite Chieli, hands folded in his lap. “You can’t substitute ingredients and expect them to have the same effect. What were you trying to accomplish?”

Chieli fidgets in her chair, then pulls her feet up into the seat, arms wrapped around her shins. “I didn’t wanna get killed, so I improvised,” she explains. “Madame—Fuck, Tammy told us there were some skeevy guys skulking around, and my first thought was, someone’s gonna kidnap me and sell me or something, so I wanted to make them just, get the fuck out of here, y’know? Except, y’all are still here, and—You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”

Dean lets out a haggard sigh. “No,” he says, then brackets Castiel’s shoulders atop the chair. “No one’s gonna kill you.”

“Look, we’re just here to ask you a few questions.” Stepping away from the door, Sam makes his way fully into the room—Dean barely made it inside before Chieli sprung and threw an entire unfinished hex bag into his face—and sits on the coffee table. “People are dying in this town, Chieli. Good people.”

“Trust me, Pastor James wasn’t a saint,” Chieli says before she can catch herself. Based off what other women in town have said, Dean is inclined to believe her. “So you think I’m killing them? I can’t even make a hex bag, how am I supposed to murder someone?”

“Given the circumstances, we believe you,” Castiel says, monotone save for a small chuckle toward the end. Dean pats his shoulder; his tongue still tastes like grave dirt and whatever poor animal she decided to grind up in a NutriBullet. “But we believe you might know who is.”

At first, Chieli doesn't answer. She sniffles into her jeans and eventually lowers her legs. Unfortunately, Dean knows her fear. He might not know the extent of it, but he remembers being young and terrified of the men John brought around, of the monsters hunting him down in the middle of the night. No one his age understood him, and it was a miracle he escaped unscathed. Someone could have turned him, dragged him into a cult and sacrificed him to some unnamed god—or worse. The most Chieli has going on in her life is a hectically slapped together coven in the middle of Alabama, led by a woman who might be the worst helicopter parent he’s ever seen.

She deserves better. Hell, everyone does these days.

“Madame Tammy’s the one doing it,” Chieli admits, palming her eyes. “She’s like, got this weird power over us. She takes our phones away and makes us chant, and she preaches about how the world would be better if we just killed everyone who treated us wrong. Which, that’s a lot of people. Like, I can’t walk up and stab the mayor, that’s murder! But she doesn’t think like that.”

“So she’s getting you guys to do her dirty work?” Dean asks, lifting a brow.

Chieli nods. “Two of my friends joined with me, Sandra and Piper. But all they talk about now is how great Madame Tammy is, and how Madame Tammy is always right, and I just wanna”—she stops to form a ring with her fingers—“strangle them. ‘Cause they’re not my friends, they’re her lackeys now.”

Sam nods, his decision apparently made. “You do realize that we might have to hurt her to get her to stop,” he says, to which Chieli laughs.

“At this point, I don’t care,” she says. “I just want my friends back. Hell, I want my phone back. She has them all in a lockbox in her car, and I’ve got pictures of my cats that I haven’t been able to send to anyone for a week.”

 _God help the cats_. “Alright,” Dean announces and pats the chair. “Then we’ve got a plan. Or, more of a plan than we’ve had this week.”

“Has Tammy instructed anyone else to kill tonight?” Castiel asks.

“We’re supposed to meet again tomorrow night,” Chieli says. Leaning back, she closes her eyes. “It’s a meteor shower, so we’re gonna ‘commune with the goddess’ or some bullshit. You know, I didn’t even wanna join this cult. I just came ‘cause my friends thought there would be beer.”

“Good ol’ peer pressure,” Dean says and shakes his head. “Next time, join a book club. Probably a hell of a lot more interesting.”

Chieli smiles, exhausted. “No thanks. My dad teaches woodshop at school, might as well as well do something good with my hands.”

-+-

For all of Monroeville’s vibrant quaintness during the day, the city shuts down at night, aside from the few bars on the east side of town. Dean doesn’t haunt the poolhalls much anymore, especially not back in Lebanon, but tonight, his skin crawls with the need to be outside. Sam passed out about an hour ago, the subject of a new routine that Dean never quite acquainted himself with. Castiel, meanwhile, tags along, elbow to elbow as they walk the few blocks from their motel to the bright glow of neon.

Castiel is looser, lately, from what Dean can tell. Like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, purely from being at Dean’s side. In the dark of the night, Dean bumps their shoulders, out of sight of anyone who might be watching. If anything, Castiel leans right back in, a smile briefly fluttering over his lips.

“You look good,” Dean says, then backtracks when Castiel glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “I mean—healthy—”

“Alive, you mean,” Castiel finishes for him.

 _Alive_ , that’s what he meant. Castiel looks _alive_ , and not on a pyre by the lake. Some nights, Dean can still smell it, cedar and firs mixed with burnt hair and sorrow. But now, Castiel is here, and warm where he leans into Dean’s side, like he never left in the first place. Some of the longest few months of Dean’s life.

Quietly, Castiel hums to himself. “I feel alive,” he says, then smiles. “Which is infinitely preferable to how I felt before. I never got to ask you.” He stops and takes Dean by the elbow, fingers caught in the sleeve of Dean’s Henley. “How are you, Dean?”

Dean falters, swallowing down the sudden adrenaline rushing up his throat. How is he, really? Ecstatic, for one, or relieved—but mostly terrified. “Can we just… not talk about this?” he asks. Castiel’s grip tightens, barely noticeable. “I just got you back, man. I mean, we all did, but—”

Castiel squeezes his arm. “I know. Trust me, I’d… There’s no place I’d rather be right now than with all of you.” _You especially_ lingers in the air. Slowly, Castiel’s touch slides away, leaving Dean cold. “How are you really?”

 _Scared_ , Dean thinks. _I don’t want to lose you again_. “Better,” he says instead, the closest he can get to the truth. Life is better with Castiel around, no longer plagued by dark shadows and tasting of cheap whiskey. “That what you wanna hear?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, mirthful. “Thank you. Now, I was under the impression we were celebrating.”

“Celebrating, right.” Patting Castiel’s shoulder, Dean pushes him in the direction of the bar a block away. “C’mon. Let’s get you some Welcome Back shots.”

Dean hears the music playing before he even makes it across the street. Two men stumble out the door while slurring half-formed words at each other, laughing while they throw punches. Light at first, then jarring—Dean pushes Castiel inside before a fight breaks out and they become innocent bystanders. A series of loud whoops and shouts greet them—not specifically them, but more for the woman standing on the bar, donning cowboy boots and ripped jeans and a shirt that covers next to nothing. A group of men flash bills at her and yell for her to take her top off, all while the bartender looks like he wishes he had signed up for night classes instead of dealing with college students looking for a wild time.

All things considered, it’s a good crowd. The music is loud enough that Dean doesn’t care what the lyrics are, and someone drunkenly buys the entire bar a round. “Can’t go wrong with free booze,” he says and orders two double shots for the hell of it. Castiel won’t feel it anyway, and Dean needs to loosen his nerves for a few minutes. Whiskey has always helped. The good stuff this time, too. “Best night ever.”

“I’ve had better,” Castiel says with a gleam in his eye. Whatever that means, Dean doesn’t bother to ask. What he does do is watch Castiel down the entire glass without a thought, only coming up for air to cough.

“There you go,” Dean laughs. His own, he takes his time with, and together they watch the crowd. More people pile in as the band switches songs, and someone shouts from one of the tables about cheating. Wherever that conversation was going, Castiel derails it by deciding to play his hand at pool—or fight the first person who looks at him wrong, who knows.

Castiel disappears before Dean can keep track of which direction he went. The woman sidling up beside him doesn’t help him, either. With dark eyes and even darker hair, she’s beautiful, in a way that should unnerve him or at least set him on edge. But nothing happens. She’s just someone attached to his arm, a woman with intent on her mind. “Hey,” she says and slides over, hip cocked, arm resting atop the bar. She looks him over once, then twice, biting her lower lip, pink and full, begging to be kissed. Her shirt clings to each and every curve, and her skirt leaves very little to the imagination. “Tamira. Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

Years ago, Dean might have played coy. His days of one-night stands are a thing of the past, mostly, but the look in her eye sets something alight in his gut, beckoning him closer. “Just passing through,” he says. Her nails dance down his shirt, tapping over the buttons and between his pecs. She wants him—and Dean hasn’t had sex in half a year. “You from around—”

“Let’s cut to the chase.” Tamira grabs him by the collar and drags him in, her smile predatory. “I’m parked out back, and I have an itch I can’t scratch. I think you’re just the man for the job.”

Heat floods to Dean’s groin, along with the rest of his sanity. “Think you picked the right guy,” he says, smoothly as he can muster. It falls somewhere flat of that, but Tamira just taps his lips and urges him to follow her outside.

In the back of his mind, Dean knows Castiel is still inside. The same Castiel who just rose from the dead, and the same Castiel who thinks that Dean is minding his own business with a free drink. In reality, Tamira winds Dean through the parking lot, leading him to the backseat of a rusted-out Pontiac Catalina. His back hits the faded leather, and Tamira climbs into his lap and slams the door without lifting a finger.

Admittedly, this isn’t the weirdest sexual encounter he’s had. That belongs to the guy who blew him in front of a group of girls at an unfortunate party in his early twenties, where Dean was half drunk and more than willing, and his friend was well past smashed. Unlike then, he doesn’t have an audience, and Tamira doesn’t waste time taking him apart, licking a wet patch across Dean’s zipper and undoing his fly with her teeth. She barely has to work to get him hard, and Dean struggles not to come just from her leaving lipstick-colored kisses to the head of his cock. “It’s nice,” she hums with a grin, lapping at the precome spilling from his slit. “Bet it’d look even better in me.”

“Bet it would.” Smirking, Dean grabs for Tamira’s hips and hoists her over his lap. She goes without a fight and takes his hand, guiding him up under her skirt. No panties, just smooth, damp skin that Dean sinks his fingers into, just to hear her moan. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

“Been waiting for someone like you all night,” Tamira says between breaths. In haste, she reaches into her bra and pulls out a foil wrapper, tossing it onto his chest. “And, honey, I’m done waiting. Now, you gonna do somethin’ ‘bout it, or are you just gonna sit there and look pretty?”

Dean laughs and sinks in deeper, thumbing her clit. Tamira convulses and collapses to her elbows, biting her lip. “Been told it’s one of my charms,” he says, then rips the wrapper open with his teeth.

The last time someone kissed Dean must have been a few months ago, probably the woman at that bar in Tallahassee who told him he looked sad, like someone stood him up on a fifth date. Tamira kisses him with heat on her tongue, and moans when Dean curls his fingers just right, clenching around him like a vise. He busies his free hand with rolling the condom on while he returns the kiss, praising himself for his sudden ability to multitask. Of the few things in life Dean is good at, sex sits in the top five; quickies behind bars easily climbs to number two.

“Get in me.” Impatient, Tamira pulls Dean’s fingers free and drags his hand to her breast, trapped beneath two layers of fabric.

If they were in a hotel, Dean could get her naked, take her apart with his tongue and more. Given that Tamira dragged him into the back of a certifiable rust heap, all he can do now is watch her sink down onto his cock, one foot on the baseboard and her knee digging into the leather. Dean’s eyes roll back at the feel of her, soft wetness and an indescribable heat that he’s always loved, no matter who he’s with. Tamira kisses him and tugs his lower lip between her teeth, and Dean kisses her back, gripping her thigh hard enough to bruise.

The minute she begins to move—when she takes him to the tip and slides down again—Dean is lost. Lost to warm skin and kisses, to the sweet words whispered into his ear, to the hands wandering his skin and yanking his shirt up. Dean pops the top three buttons of her blouse and tugs her bra out of the way, thumbing her nipple; Tamira abandons his lips to bite at the juncture of his throat, just in time for someone to knock on the door.

“Dean,” a man’s voice calls, tapping on the window. “Dean, get out of the car.”

“Fuck,” Dean groans, scrabbling for Tamira’s hips—

“Yeah, baby,” Tamira laughs and thrusts harder, her hands to Dean’s pecs. “Take it like the big, strong man you—”

“Dean,” the voice calls, now banging with a fist. “Dean, that’s Madame Tammy.”

Wait. “Shit,” Dean barks. Like a switch, the last vestige of Dean’s sanity returns from its extended vacation, and Dean shoves Tamira by the shoulder. “Shit, you’re the—”

“I’m what?” Huffing, Tamira looks over her shoulder and scowls. Because standing outside the door is Castiel, tie askew and a flush high on his cheeks, and eyes narrowed like he plans on murdering the next person to look at him. Which, incidentally, is Dean. “Look, I don’t do threesomes—”

“Get off me,” Dean demands, pulling his shirt down. Maybe this wasn't the best idea after all. Maybe next time, he should do a full background check to make sure the person riding him isn’t a serial killer. “Informed consent, lady, Jesus—”

“You consented,” Tamira balks.

“Yeah, but at least tell me you're a witch!” Pushing her, Dean sits up. “Now get off me."

“Pushy.” In haste, Tamira pulls off and fixes her shirt, all while Dean tries and fails to tuck his cock back into his jeans. Kicking the door open, Tamira steps out and shoves Castiel, only for Castiel to take her by the wrist and pin her hand behind her back. “Look, whatever you think I did, I didn’t—“

“We know you didn't,” Castiel rumbles and jerks Tamira’s arm. Still struggling with his belt, Dean crawls out of the backseat. Tamira shoots him a glare, and something tells him if Castiel didn’t have her restrained, she would curse him on the spot. “You’ve gotten children to do your dirty work.”

“They’re not children,” Tamira shouts, baring her teeth. “They’re my coven, and they’ll do whatever I tell them, whenever.”

“Yeah, but you’re asking them to kill people,” Dean shoots back. _Fuck the belt_ , he thinks. Thankfully Castiel has the decency to not look down. “Halfway decent people are dying, all because, what, you have a vendetta?”

Tamira scowls. “What would you do if everyone where you lived hated you? They think I’m a monster, all because they found me out. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Literally anything. Anything else.” Dean rubs his eyes, acutely aware of where his hands have been. _I can’t even get laid in peace_. “Skip town, start over, not murder people. You’re only proving their point.”

“Well,” Tamira says, then stumbles over her words. Petulantly, she stomps her foot, her boot colliding with Castiel’s toes. Castiel’s eye twitches. “So what, you’re just gonna kill me? I’m three hundred years old, boys. I’ve lived through horrors you can’t even imagine, so you think your little charade scares me?”

“It’s not meant to,” Castiel says. With all the grace of a dancer, he spins Tamira around to face him, and Dean catches her by the shoulders before she hits the ground.

“Lady, we’re tired of killing people,” Dean says, and means it. Witches are awfully low on their hierarchy of monsters. Sure, in the past, he might not have hesitated, but now, he sighs and waves his hand. “You gonna promise you won’t get your coven to kill anyone else?”

Tamira stomps; Dean jerks his foot away. “I don’t make promises, period,” she says—and Castiel taps two fingers to her forehead.

Memory wiping is a meticulous process, or so Castiel told him in the past. Picking what memories to remove and leaving the rest untouched, without spying on anything he shouldn't. Dean watches a thin white film pour free from her forehead into Castiel’s palm, then dissipate the moment he sets it free. “That’s all of her memories of Monroeville, and of her coven,” he says with a nod.

Promptly after, Tamira ragdolls into Dean’s arms, out cold. “Huh,” he says, struggling to prop her up by the Catalina. “Thought that’d be harder.”

-+-

Castiel doesn’t speak the rest of the walk home. Nor does he fix his tie, or answer whenever Dean asks why someone tried to pull it off of him. Maybe someone picked a fight, or started throwing shots in his direction and one thing led to another. In the five minutes between Tamira dragging Dean from the bar and Castiel coming to his unwanted rescue, something happened, and Castiel refuses to answer to it.

In fact, Castiel doesn’t do much of anything aside from stare straight ahead, hands in his coat pockets and lips pursed into a thin line. Thinking, probably—or wondering how he can smite Dean off the face of the earth without anyone knowing. Which sounds preferable to the ongoing situation in Dean’s pants, cock still hard and tenting denim to the point of obscenity. Dean keeps close to the walls of every building they pass. Not that anyone driving by could see, but it helps him feel better all the same. Thinking of dead kittens doesn’t work, nor does the thought of his grandparents naked, nor Sam bleeding out on the motel floor.

 _Damn boner_.

Silence takes up residence in the space between them, reforming the gap Dean only just began to tear down.

Neon glows in the motel parking lot, casting a pink-and-green shadow on the pavement. Only the Impala and a Tesla of all things sit outside, leaving the majority of the rooms empty for the evening. On the way to their room, Castiel takes a sharp left into a dark corridor, lit only by a Coke machine bearing a wildly out-of-date NASCAR advertisement, and the fluorescent blue glow from the pool on the other side. Dean follows him without thinking, without even bothering to consider just why Castiel wouldn't walk the few feet necessary to their room, before Castiel takes him by the bicep and slams him into the gap between the corner wall and Dale Earnhardt.

 _He’s not okay with it_ is Dean’s first thought. But Castiel has walked in on him at worse moments, and never batted an eye. Why would he care now? “Cas,” Dean says, as stern as he can manage with Castiel’s arm across his chest. “Cas, come on, this isn’t—”

“Someone will hear you,” is all Castiel says, and he sneaks a kiss to the reddened mark along Dean’s collar. The same mark Tamira left minutes before, still sore and likely to bruise—and Castiel kisses it with reverence, while his grip lessens and his hand creeps lower, settling over the bulge in his jeans. “You never got off.”

He never got off— _Why does he care_? “Didn’t really let me finish,” Dean says with a laugh. “Maybe another minute—”

“She would’ve killed you,” Castiel cuts him off. Deftly, he unclasps Dean’s belt and pops the button, tugging the zipper down. The second time tonight, someone has gotten their hands on him in public—except, this time, Dean can’t look the person in the eye. Said person demands his attention, in every way possible. “She knew who you were. We were probably her next targets, and you let yourself be swept away.”

“Hey,” Dean jabs, then bites his lip. “I’m not gonna turn a woman down, alright? She wanted it, I wanted it, that’s all that matters.”

Castiel hums, trailing kisses up to Dean’s jaw. Slowly, almost tenderly, he strokes down the length of Dean’s cock with a closed fist, and Dean nearly comes right there, still as hard as ever and just as wet, especially when Castiel drags his thumb over the tip. He’s a practiced hand; Dean wonders how often Castiel has brought himself off just because he could, hidden behind a bedroom door.

 _You’re such a horndog_ , Dean berates himself. _You just got him back and that’s the only thing you missed_?

Throat thick, Dean grabs Castiel by the hip and tugs him closer, trapping Castiel’s thigh between his own. _Why now_ sits heavy on his tongue, along with, _why do you want me_? The only word that comes out is Castiel’s name on a loop, in rhythm with Castiel’s languid strokes, turning more fevered. Dean smothers a breath in Castiel’s collar, hips twitching, a flame scorching through his gut all the way to his toes. “Cas,” Dean pants as he crests, the name barely more than a whisper, followed by a soft whine.

And Castiel kisses him. Kisses him like he’s trying to devour Dean’s soul, lips soft and sweet and even more intoxicating than his orgasm. Dean clings to him, the only thing he can think to do, and muffles a moan into Castiel’s kiss, echoing off of the vending machine. Only, Castiel pulls away too soon, his fist streaked in white and his brow pinched. He runs his tongue across his lip, eyes locked on Dean. “You’re cursed.”

Dean blinks. “I’m what?”

-+-

Castiel at least has the sense to let Dean shower and change into something that doesn't reek of sex before dragging him out of the room once again, all while Sam continues to sleep on, snoring to his heart’s content. Whatever gets him out of having to listen to Sam saw logs. If only it didn't involve sitting outside on the most humid night of the year, an eerie teal glow their only source of light.

“So, cursed,” Dean says by way of conversation. A thousand other thoughts float around in his head, ranging from how Castiel’s hand feels on his cock to the fact that last week, Castiel was dead, and now he’s very much alive. Compounded with a curse and the worst pillow talk of his life, this week might as well be a total bust, or just another Thursday in his book. “What kinda curse are we talking?”

Castiel sits on a plastic lounger, pillowing his hands in his lap. “I don’t know,” he says, blunt.

Just what Dean wants to hear. “Do you know who did it?”

A shake of the head.

“Where?”

Nothing.

“Shit.” Dean throws his head back and wishes that the earth would swallow him whole. “So what, I’ve just magically been hexed, and I just gotta wait and see if I grow a tail?”

“Whatever it is, it’s not particularly powerful,” Castiel admits, embarrassed. Dean was wrong—this easily tops his list of awkward sexual experiences. “I noticed it when I kissed you, that you tasted… different. I expected nothing, or that gum you like—“

Dean sputters and jams his thumbnail into his index finger. _Not a dream_. “You expected?” he asks. “You’ve—You thought about kissing me?”

A flush highlights Castiel’s cheeks, painting the tips of his ears. “You’ve only talked to two people within the last few hours, and I highly doubt either of them could be the culprit.”

Rubbing his eyes, Dean sighs into his hands. “Can’t be Chieli,” he agrees. “Too much of a novice. And I don’t think Madame Tammy was working anything when she jumped in my lap.”

“And finding everyone who happened to be in the bar tonight would be impossible.” Castiel hangs his head. “Do you feel strange? Sick, or lethargic—”

“Just horny,” Dean blurts before his brain can catch up. Castiel lifts a brow. “Are we not gonna talk about how you thought about kissing me? ‘Cause that’s what I’m kinda stuck on.”

“I’d rather not,” Castiel says, deadpan. “I’m more concerned with—”

“Cas.” Standing, Dean inelegantly straddles Castiel’s waist atop the lounger, his knees poking through the vinyl. Fear brightens Castiel’s eyes, even more so when Dean palms his cheeks, keeping him close. “I’m only gonna say this once, so listen. You listening?”

Reluctant, Castiel nods. “I don't think I have a choice.”

Dean bites back a laugh. “I just spent the last few months thinking you were gone for good. I saw you die, Cas, I burnt your body. I watched you—” He stops, clears his throat. “I had to watch you burn, knowing I’d never…”

Loath as he is to admit it, feelings have never been his strong suit, at least verbally. Physically, he can get across whatever point he desires, and kissing Castiel right now seems like a decent way to express his priorities. Dean couldn't have had him like he has Castiel now, warm and breathing in his arms, his lips just as soft as they were half an hour before.

Tentatively, Castiel grabs hold of the back of Dean’s robe, pulling the fabric taut and threatening to rip it from Dean’s shoulders. If they were alone—truly alone and hidden behind four walls and a door—Dean might let him. As it is, he slides his hands down Castiel’s neck, and Castiel shivers, sucking in a breath. Castiel tastes like humidity, a far-off storm clinging to his tongue.

One of Castiel’s hands drifts, placed square between his pecs. Pushing him away—telling him _I don’t want this_. “We should leave,” he says, the opposite of what Dean expected. “Room 14 just woke up and they’re heading for the door.”

“Shit,” Dean hisses. Pulling back, he notes the disappointment on Castiel’s face, and files that away for another day. “Guess that’s the end of that.”

Castiel’s shoulders sag. “I guess so.”

-+-

Normally, Dean wakes like clockwork: six o’clock every morning, no matter the day of the week and no matter how late he passed out the night before. Approaching forty, and he still can’t shake the routine a life on the road has instilled in him. That, and waking at every noise, from the slightest whisper to trucks downshifting on the interstate.

Somehow, he manages to sleep past the sunrise, only to wake with the sun in his face and no clue of what time it is. Rolling onto his back, Dean slings an arm over to find the mattress empty, no sign of the warmth that joined him in his dreams. In fact, Castiel is nowhere to be found, and Sam apparently left with him. _Great_ , he thinks, fisting the sleep from his eyes. _They finally abandoned me._

To his relief, he spots the Impala still in her space outside, gleaming under the Alabama sun. Dean reads the arms on his watch and sighs—almost nine. Breakfast is over, and no one bothered to grab him any coffee before the office closed.

He shouldn’t get out of bed. If they were home, Dean would consider lying there all day, either sleeping or wishing Castiel was there with him, like he’s wanted every morning for the last few months. Because then, Castiel wasn’t coming back, and Dean bade his time wallowing in the what ifs. _What if Castiel made it. What if Castiel stayed. What if Castiel lo_ —

 _No_. Sitting up, Dean yanks the bedsheets off and stumbles across the room, one foot perfectly fine, the other suddenly made of lead. He stumbles into a fall, nearly clocking his head on the dresser on the way down. Pins and needles stab his toes, and he spends the next minute shaking out his leg while the ceiling laughs at him.

A great start to the morning.

The only place where Castiel and Sam might be, Dean thinks, is the pool. Or, Madame Tammy could have kidnapped them in the middle of the night and finished the job. He goes with—and prays for—the former and throws on his robe over his briefs, pulling the sash tight. Castiel’s scent still clings to the fabric, along with the stale musk of dust that refuses to fade despite multiple washes.

That, and the humidity. Stepping outside, Dean chokes on air and desperately wishes he were anywhere else. Alaska, Antarctica, Australia in the winter, somewhere that won’t choke him just from opening a door. And before he can step onto the concrete, Sam and Castiel wander back from around the corner, hands in their pockets, looking entirely suspicious.

“You told him,” Dean accuses petulantly. “Secrets, Cas, sometimes we have secrets—”

“He deserves to know,” Castiel replies, not at all ashamed. “I was hoping he might have an idea as to who cursed you.”

“I don’t have a clue either, by the way.” Shrugging, Sam steps inside. “We don’t have a very long list of suspects, and Chieli is the only person who’s thrown a hex bag at you in the last twenty-four hours.”

“But she’s inexperienced, is the problem,” Castiel tacks on. Shutting the door behind him, he continues, “She attempted to use a relocating spell with incorrect ingredients. It would depend on what she used and the precise amounts, but even then, none of it should be detectable since she didn't cast it.”

Sam folds his arms. “But he still got a mouthful of the stuff. You don't think that would affect him? And,” he stops to look at Dean, the question in his eyes horrifying. _He knows_. “How did Cas find out you’re cursed?”

 _Shit, shit, shit_. Dean casts a brief glance to Castiel, who only shakes his head. Good, then. The longer Sam stays oblivious to Castiel—and to Dean’s sordid past in general—the better. “I saw it just by looking at him,” Castiel flat out lies with a straight face. “It might be best to just… wait it out. If it’s not affecting him now, then it might wear off.”

“Or I could grow horns tomorrow,” Dean pipes in. Both Sam and Castiel roll their eyes. “What? It’s either that or I start coughing up slugs, and right now? I’ll take the horns.”

“You’re not gonna grow horns,” Sam huffs. “Look, we’ll call Rowena when we get to the next motel. Maybe she can meet us somewhere and figure this out. Are you sure you don’t…” He claps his palm over Dean’s forehead, his lips pursed. “You don’t feel hot.”

“I don’t feel anything,” Dean says, only partially a lie.

In reality, his libido has suddenly sprung to life more than it ever has in the past year, and keeping his dick soft has been an ordeal he never wants to endure again. He has a ring for that in his room back at the bunker, maybe that would help. If only Kansas wasn’t a two day drive, and popping by a sex shop with Sam in the car would be ill-advised. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it—and as much as Sam and Castiel want to deny it—Chieli must have hexed him.

But to what extent is the question Dean wants answered.

“Look,” Dean starts, sitting at the edge of his bed. “If I have to spend another day getting eaten alive by mosquitos, I might scream. Whatever this is, it can wait until we get home, so can we just go?”

Sam nods, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I packed up when you were sleeping. By the way, since when do you sleep past six?”

 _Good question_. “What can I say, Sammy, things change.”

-+-

A few miles from Jackson, Mississippi, Sam finds a case while Dean pumps gas and Castiel raids the snack aisle inside the station. Right when they’re beginning to make good time, Sam chimes in with, “Listen to this,” and pops open the passenger door. “Three people in the last two weeks have washed up on the beach in Gulfport. Turns out, all of the victims were killed by their significant others. Except, supposedly their partners were in another county at the time of the murder.”

“So, demons or sirens,” Dean muses. “But demons wouldn’t be so clean about it.”

“Right.” Stepping out of the car, Sam stretches his arms over his head, phone still in hand. “Supposedly, all of the suspects visited the same bar two days before their death, and after their arrest, they admitted that they all met up with the same man. Tall, short hair, vaguely resembling Zac Efron.”

Dean rolls his eyes. The machine clanks, and Dean pulls the nozzle free and sets it back in its holder. “Great, so now they’re pretending they’re celebrities. So what, Troy Bolton shows up in town, starts preying on the locals and gets them to kill their girlfriends?”

“And boyfriends,” Sam adds. “Anyway, it’s two hours away if you wanna pop by. We haven’t exactly been to the beach in a while.”

And New Orleans is only an hour away, another place he hasn't visited in over a decade. “Alright, I’ll bite,” Dean agrees. Looking over his shoulder, he finds Castiel finally emerging from the store, a plastic bag in hand. “But if this is a serial killer, I’m out. I know that’s all up your alley, but I’m not getting kidnapped and thrown in a basement.”

“No one’s getting kidnapped.” Sam rolls his eyes. “At the very least, we can get out of this heat.”

“Hallelujah,” Dean agrees. “Hey, Cas? Change of plans.”

Castiel rounds the gas tanks and stops at Dean’s side; sweat beads at his temple, and his hair, normally unkempt, now falls flat into his face. The heat affects everyone, Dean guesses, or, Castiel just isn’t bothering with keeping up appearances anymore. Honestly, Dean doesn’t blame him. Driving is already enough effort in this weather, but using whatever Grace Castiel has left to maintain his core temperature?

“Did you forget your toothbrush?” Castiel asks, his brow pinched. “You can always buy another one—”

“No, not that,” Sam cuts in with a laugh. “No, there’s a case a couple hours south of here.”

Slinging an arm around Castiel’s shoulder, Dean jostles him, just because he can. Casual touches, he can still get away with. Sam doesn’t suspect, as far as he knows. “Yeah, think of it as a beach vacation. Sun, sand, and sirens, the three S’s.”

“Joy,” Castiel says. Handing the bag to Dean, he tugs his coat off and throws it through the back window. “I won’t need this then.”

Dean swallows. “Probably for the best.”

-+-

Gulfport is like any other city on the Gulf Coast, except nicer, with larger houses and palm-lined streets, and tourists crowding into the casinos on the main strip. And with the nicer views comes a higher price tag; the cheapest place Dean can afford is the Motel 6 halfway between Gulfport and Biloxi. It’s a step up from their usual fare, at least, with beds that don't reek of mold and cigarettes and bedding that wasn't manufactured before he was born.

While their room doesn’t look out over the beach, it’s at least in walking distance, just a short jog across the highway directly into the sand. Not that Dean plans to spend much time there, but it’s enticing, to say the least. Maybe tonight after the sun goes down and the tourists leave for the evening, he’ll head down to the shore and just sit there, listening to the waves. No traffic noise, no crying through the walls, just the sound of the ocean and his own heartbeat.

Dean longs for the silence. Craves it, even as the three of them go through the motions of questioning the local sheriff and the coroner. None of them have any concrete answers as to the motives of the suspects, but all three victims were murdered in incredibly similar ways, with their throats ripped out.

Not the most gruesome of deaths Dean has ever seen, but the older he gets, the less he can stand to look. Because at some point, he’ll be the person washed up on the beach, or stripped bare on a cold slab, and Sam or Castiel will have to look at him and try to find the thing that killed him.

Outside of the Harrison County Office Building, Dean spends a long few minutes leaning against the side of the Impala. Sweat sticks to his skin, rolling down the back of his dress shirt and seeping into the waistband of his slacks. Even with the setting sun, the heat still persists, lingering long after the sky devolves into reds and golds.

“It’s not a demon, then,” Sam says as he exits the building with Castiel at his side. “No traces of sulfur, and no wounds other than whatever happened with their…” He stops to motion at his throat.

“I’m not entirely convinced the siren didn't kill the victims itself,” Castiel says. He slumps next to Dean; without the coat, he looks just like them, haggard and exhausted from life on the road, with more grays than Dean cares to count. Sooner or later, Castiel’s age will catch up to him. “Humans are only capable of so much, but that grip strength—”

“Isn’t human, yeah,” Dean finishes. “It’s weird, man. I mean, they trusted whatever killed them. If it wore their partner’s faces, then the last thing they saw was…” He shakes his head. “Just weird.”

Sam pats Dean’s shoulder in consolation, his touch limp. They haven’t been home in two weeks; some mornings, Dean feels like an old man, climbing out of bed with aching joints, and Sam must not be far off. _So much for middle age_. “You sure you’re good? It’s not making you sentimental, is it?”

“What?” Dean brushes him off. “No, I’m just… Think about it.” Pushing off the car, Dean runs both hands through his hair. “You’re dating someone, and they’re your whole world, and one day they show up, and the next thing you know, you’re stuck in Heaven’s time warp. Just, one minute you’re here, and the next…”

Castiel’s eyes soften, his gaze distant. “You’re aware of the signs, though. If something were to happen to either of you, you’d be able to fight back.”

“That’s not always the case.” Sam sits on a parking block, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Sure, we know what signs to look for, but what good does that do when you can’t fight back? Before we met you, a djinn almost killed Dean.”

“Took me a hell of a while to fight it,” Dean adds. “But djinn and sirens are different. I mean, what if I walk in the room one day and I think it’s both of you I’m seeing, but it’s not? And then what?” He shakes his head, palms pressed into his eyes. “That’s not how I wanna go, man.”

Gently, Castiel fits his hand over Dean’s shoulder, digging his fingers in. He doesn’t speak, but the sentiment lingers on his face: _I’ll protect you_.

“Dean and I have a safe word,” Sam says, looking up to Castiel. “Something only we’d know, that lets us know to pack up and go. What about that?”

Swallowing, Dean agrees. All of these years, and the only way he can tell if it’s really Castiel is by this—hand placement. The touches Castiel always gives him, to ground him in the moment, to keep him sane. Any other situation, and Dean would be lost. “We’ll come up with something,” he says, and offers Castiel a small smile. Castiel squeezes him tighter and lets his hand drop, fingers trailing down the arm of his suit jacket. “How’s that sound?”

“Good,” Castiel says, and nods.

-+-

Castiel sleeps nowadays, or has ever since his resurrection. Some nights, he rests at the desk, or in an armchair if they happen upon a motel with actual furniture; others, he slides either into Sam’s bed or Dean’s, depending on how friendly he feels. Tonight, Dean wakes gradually to find Castiel on the left side of the mattress, asleep with his hair matted to his head, lips parted as he breathes.

He shouldn't be this human, but he is. The more time Dean spends with him and the longer Castiel stays by his side, the more he notices how human Castiel has become, from his gestures to the look he gives Dean, like he actually, truly understands.

Something calls to Dean tonight. An urge he can’t shake, like a voice whispering in his ear, beckoning him outside. Sitting up, Dean presses a kiss to Castiel’s temple before sliding out of bed, grabbing his jeans along the way. Shoes and socks in hand, Dean takes both the room and car keys and slips outside, locking the door behind him. If Sam or Castiel need him, they can call, and he might answer.

For now, Dean slips on his shoes and looks out at the beach, the moon reflecting off the pristine surface only a few dozen yards away. Even at a distance, he can hear the waves washing up on the shore; a light breeze makes its way across the parking lot, disturbing the sand on the blacktop. That, and the small yellow note stuck to the Impala’s windshield. Skeptical, he finishes tying his laces before taking the note, reading the immaculate handwriting.

_19 th Avenue, yellow roof. Come alone._

Not the most detailed set of instructions anyone has ever given him, but definitely the most suspicious. A brass dagger sits in the trunk, along with every other weapon in their arsenal, just in case. Part of him knows that this could be a trap, and someone could be waiting to finish the job. On the other hand, it could be a potential lead, and someone on the inside wants to spill their secrets. Whatever the reason for the note, Dean climbs into the Impala and backs out as quietly as he can manage, blending in with the few cars passing by in the dead of night.

19th Avenue leads directly into Gulfport proper, the majority of the houses consisting of beach cottages or trailers, all with small trees in the front yard and sand lining driveways where grass struggles to grow. Dean pointedly searches for a home with a yellow roof, all while dodging people parked on the curb and the one lone runner with reflective patches on his waistband. Said person veers off into the driveway of a house with a roof so pale, it might as well be white.

Parking alongside a vibrantly green Bronco, Dean exits the Impala to the sound of thumping bass and bright lights in the windows. None of the other neighbors appear to mind the noise, or maybe they all fled to the north for the summer to escape the heat. His gut twists. _Bad idea_ , he thinks, but walks straight across the yard anyway, sand embedding into the soles of his boots.

Cars continue to pass on the street; neighbors sleep on, oblivious. Dean slips inside through the unlocked door, and wanders into a scene he didn't expect. It’s a lobby, more resembling a doctor’s office than an actual house. Four people sit in the padded chairs lining three of the walls, and a woman sits at the front desk, her blonde hair pulled back to reveal her cheekbones and the dark shadow lining her eyes. Pale irises set sight on Dean; the woman smiles and stands, extending a hand. She reminds him of Jessica.

“Mr. Winchester,” she says, gripping his hand with both of hers. Her nametag reads Flora. _Warm. Not a vamp_. “I see you got Carlos’ note.”

“Something like that,” Dean says. Seconds pass, and Flora refuses to release him, instead bringing his fingers to her nose to—sniff him. “You’re not human, are you?”

“No,” Flora singsongs. “None of us are, here. You smell heavenly, not like any of the other humans that show up here.”

 _Humans_? Before he has a chance to ask, a door opens to his right, creaking and alerting the guests, nearly sending them from their seats. In anticipation, Dean supposes. _Weird_. “Winchester,” a man says, with a voice as warm as smoldering coals. Throat thick, Dean turns and finds a man with dark hair and startlingly blue eyes, so much like Castiel but not quite a match. The mustache throws him off, along with the Hawaiian shirt, opened to reveal a chest full of tattoos, bright across his tanned skin. “I’m Carlos. I was hoping I’d see you. Come, come.” He motions for Dean to follow him. “You have questions, I have answers.”

Somehow, Dean manages to unglue his feet from the floor and walk, allowing Carlos to lead the way. The door clicks shut; on the other side, Dean listens to the thrumming bass and the soft moans emanating from the multitude of rooms, all adorned with numbers on the doors. _A brothel_ , he thinks, _I got dragged to a brothel_. “You’re looking for a siren, correct?”

Dean unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says. “You have something to do with the bodies washing up?”

Carlos stops in front of room number seven, then takes Dean by the wrist and steps inside, dragging Dean along with him. Warmth spreads through Dean’s veins from the contact, not infectious or invasive, but pleasant, like greeting an old friend. The door shuts, and Dean swallows, his eyes falling onto the bed. Not only did he wander into a brothel, but he walked straight into a trap. Possibly. Depends on how the night goes.

“I’m not the man who murdered those people,” Carlos says, firm, a declaration. Normally, Dean can spot a liar on instinct—and Carlos can’t lie. “The moment I felt you heading our direction, I told Flora to find you. You see, Jeramiah is a good man. An honorable man, as honorable as the rest of us in our coterie. But he’s—”

“Wait.” Dean pulls away, ignoring how Carlos chases after him. “You—You’re a siren?”

“We’re all sirens,” Carlos says with a smile. “Did Flora not tell you?”

Dean laughs, manic. “No, dude. All she did was smell my hand, like I’m catnip or something. So this whole house is—”

“We run a respectable business here,” Carlos starts. He sits on the edge of the bed, his shirt falling open to reveal even more ink down his sides, and the thick trail of hair leading into his waistband. Dean doesn’t look down—tries not to, and fails spectacularly. “Humans have fantasies, and we provide an outlet. There’s a hundred of us living in this city, as we have for decades, and Jeramiah is putting us into the spotlight. Please.” Again, he reaches out to Dean and pulls him between his spread legs, close enough for Dean to smell the sweat clinging to his skin. “Put an end to him, by whatever means necessary. We don’t stand for traitors, and we fear that he’ll continue killing if he isn’t stopped.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Dean asks, to Carlos’ nod. “And why should I believe you? ‘Cause for all I know, you could be the one out there—"

“Because, my boy,” and Carlos takes Dean by the nape, pressing their foreheads together, “I happen to like humans, if you catch my drift.” He slides his hand down Dean’s shirt, then tugs a belt loop; Dean lets out a whimper of a moan. “Not all of us are killers. Some of us enjoy our vices, and mine happens to be men. And you…” His tongue darts across his lower lip. “You smell divine.”

Dean doesn’t kiss him, half because Carlos holds him back, a finger to Dean’s lips. “Rule number one of this business,” he says, “no kissing. I kiss you, and you’re under my control. I require full consent from my partners.”

Dean laughs. “Tell that to the first lady. Didn’t tell me she was a witch before she went to town.”

Carlos cracks a grin. “Do you make a regular hobby of sleeping with monsters?”

 _Not normally_. “My buddy says I’m cursed,” Dean says, his words pitching into a moan when Carlos latches onto his neck, working the mark Tamira left behind that much redder. Frantic, Dean seizes Carlos’ shirt and shoves it off, solely to do something with his hands. “What do you think? ‘Cause I’ve had more sex in the last two days than I have in the last year.”

“Maybe you’re just lucky,” Carlos hums. He kisses the bruise before pulling away, only to take Dean by the waistband and throw him onto his back. The mattress squeaks and sags with Carlos’ weight around him, his body blocking out the light from the ceiling fan. “You wanna be lucky?”

“I wanna be lucky,” Dean practically begs.

Carlos rids Dean of his shirt with a flick of his wrists, tugging it over his head with little effort on both of their parts. Dean, meanwhile, undoes his fly and shoves his jeans down, taking his briefs with them. Carlos kisses every inch of skin he can reach, each touch sending fire through Dean’s skin, all of it spiraling to his cock. Said cock, Carlos unfortunately ignores, and props Dean’s legs open with his knees, keeping him pinned; denim scratches his thighs, the sensation somehow even hotter than seeing Carlos bare.

“Rule two.” Carlos stops to hold up two fingers. “I can suck you off, but not like this.”

Shifting his hips, Dean stretches his arms above his head, priding himself as Carlos watches him with lust. “I gotta get back to the motel anyway,” he says. “Kinda snuck out thinking I was chasing a lead.”

Carlos smirks and nips the jut of Dean’s hip. “I still have more to tell you,” he says. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a condom and several packets of lube, tossing all but one onto the bedspread. “Close your eyes,” he instructs. “Let yourself feel it. You’re strung tight, you’d probably come if I looked at you the right way.”

 _I probably would_ , Dean thinks, but complies. Tossing an arm over his eyes, Dean waits for a few seconds before Carlos touches him, swiping two fingers across his rim before shoving them inside. Dean gasps with the initial sting, clamping down; Carlos soothes him with a kiss to his ribs, barely moving until Dean finally settles. “You’re tight,” he says, rolling his tongue over Dean’s nipple. “Relax. If it helps, you can think about him.”

Dean opens his eyes, only to find the darkness of his arm. Of course he knows about Castiel. Sirens emulate their victim’s deepest desire, after all, and Carlos does have eerily similar eyes. At the most, Dean tries to relax, opening his hips just that bit wider; Carlos palms the length of his cock with a slick hand, and Dean bucks up into him, Carlos’ fingers sinking in deeper.

After that, Dean gives himself over. Carlos fucks him like that for what feels like forever, his digits long and slender, so unlike what he always imagined Castiel’s would be. He pulls out briefly to wet his fingers again before shoving them back in, this time with little resistance. Humming, Carlos curls upwards, and Dean smothers a groan into his arm, eyes pinched shut. With Castiel, it could go either way—he could tease Dean for hours at a time, or fuck him rough and fast, and he would take whatever Castiel gave him.

Carlos opts for the latter, his grip around Dean’s cock viselike. Dean just rides it, tearing at the linens and choking on his own gasps. Sex with women is good—amazing, even, if he had to put a word to it—but this is something he’s never grown tired of, being on the receiving end. Briefly, he wonders if this is how all of his past partners have felt when he was inside them, all tight heat and pressure with the threat of release imminent—

Carlos pulls away. Dean whines at the loss and reaches out for him, only for Carlos to pin his arm to the bed. “No kissing,” he reminds Dean, flashing his tongue. Glancing down, Dean watches him roll the condom on one-handed, and just barely catches a glimpse of exactly what’s going inside him before Carlos pushes in, the long, hot length of him splitting Dean wide.

No preamble, no pleasantries before the final act. Carlos simply holds him down by his wrists and fucks him without mercy, his jeans still on and the chain dangling from his neck swaying with every thrust. On instinct, Dean tries to move, tries to grab ahold of anything he can, but Carlos keeps him still, his pointed teeth visible through parted lips. “Don’t look,” he rasps into Dean’s ear, breathless. “Think of him, what you want from him.”

“Cas,” Dean moans. Throwing his head back, Carlos latches onto his neck and sucks a new mark close to Tamira’s; Dean’s cock jumps in reply, combined with Carlos’ breakneck pace. Dean has never wanted to kiss someone so bad in his life. “Fuck, Cas—”

“Oh,” Carlos laughs, “you’ve got it bad, don't you?”

The minute Carlos gets a hand around his cock again, Dean comes, his orgasm an assault on his senses. Black creeps into the corners of his eyes as he spills, thick and messy into Carlos’ hand and his stomach; Carlos biting him doesn’t help, igniting a further fire in his veins, until the tension finally snaps and Dean lets out a breath, lungs fighting for air. In the midst of Dean’s spasms, Carlos lets him go and hoists Dean open wider, hooking his arms under his knees and practically bending him in half. Carlos joins him with little more than a breath, muscles pulled taut, then going slack as he slumps forward.

The strain catches up to Dean before his brain even has a chance. Only after Carlos pulls out does he try to speak, his voice little more than a croak. “Ow,” he groans, breaking into a laugh. “Haven’t bent that way in a while.”

“That good?” Carlos asks, smug. “Too bad you have to run. I’m more than interested in seeing you again, if you have the time.”

Dean might take him up on that, if he ever finds his way back to Mississippi. “Give me your number then.”

Humming, Carlos flops down next to him, propped up on an elbow. In the pale light from the ceiling fan, he glows, dark skin painted darker with waning arousal. “Jeramiah lives in a house on Bayou Bernard. Keyser Lane. He has an Olds in the front lawn up on blocks, you can’t miss it.”

Easy enough, but not tonight. Tonight, he has an inkling of a suspicion of what the curse might mean. “Sure I can’t get a goodbye kiss?”

Carlos grins, all sharp teeth and charm, and presses a kiss to the corner of Dean’s lips. “Close as you’re gonna get, baby.”

-+-

Sam is still asleep by the time Dean wanders back to the motel, a hitch in his step and a permanent wince on his face. Castiel, on the other hand, sits with his back to the pillows, lips a thin line. Scolding, like a disappointed father waiting for his daughter to arrive home after the walk of shame.

“Sam,” Dean say, louder than necessary. “Sammy, wake up, I got a question.”

Jolting awake, Sam throws half of his bedding onto the floor in his haste to sit up, reaching for the invisible gun on the nightstand. “Jesus Christ,” he growls, somehow managing to flip on the nightstand lamp. “This better be good, because I was—”

“Asleep, yeah.” Dean waves a hand at him, ignoring the look Castiel continues to give him. Angry, probably. Jealous, definitely. “Look, what do I smell like?”

Sam blinks. Blinks again, while he grinds his teeth and weighs the probable options of killing Dean and dumping him in the Gulf. “Really?” he asks, brow pinched. “You woke me up because you smell?”

“I’m not kidding.” Kicking off his boots, Dean flops onto the mattress at Castiel’s feet. “Cas, smell me? I have a theory.”

Castiel complies, but only just. Frustration paints his face as he crawls across the bed, only to tuck his face in Dean’s throat. _Close there, buddy_. “Lavender,” he says, something wistful about his tone. In the shadows, he presses his lips to Carlos’ mark, teeth scraping the bruise. “Wild roses.”

Dean nearly chokes on his own spit. “Sam, can you—just get over here? Think he’s having a moment.”

“Dude.” Sam rubs his eyes, still squinting against the light. “You reek of sex, I get it. Don’t rub it in—”

“But that’s the problem—Ow, Cas, Jesus.” Castiel nips at the tender skin lining Dean’s collar, and Dean barely—just barely—bites back a moan. “I’ve had sex three times in the past twenty-four hours.”

Sam lets out a breath in exaggeration. “Three times. Salt in the wound, man—”

Castiel bites down, and Dean shouts, “Sam, listen to me— _Christ_. Cas, Orlando, Orlando, get off me—”

And on command, Castiel recoils, his blown pupils retracting in the light. The first time he’s had to use their safe word, and hopefully the last. Shame paints his face a vibrant red, spreading down his neck. “My apologies,” he rasps and turns his head. “I don’t know what came over me.”

 _It’s not his fault_ , Dean tells himself. None of it is his fault, and Castiel shouldn’t take the blame for it. “Just… hear me out for a second,” Dean says, covering his neck with his hand. Reflex—Castiel refuses to look at him, and Sam sits up straighter, or as straight as he can given the hour. “I think Chieli did something to me.”

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it. “She’s not even a witch, though,” he says when he gathers the words. “You don’t think that hex bag actually cursed you, do you?”

 _I wish it didn’t_. With a wince, Dean crosses his legs, praying Sam doesn’t notice. “Like I said, three times, twenty-four hours. And, here’s the kicker. Not even with humans.”

“What, like, monsters?” Sam sputters a laugh. “You’re fucking monsters now?”

“No, Sam, they’re fucking me.” Dean buries his head in his hands and wishes it was a lie. Partially, maybe. Not that he regrets the few minutes he had with Castiel, but everyone else… “Not that I wanna be discussing the details of my sex life with my little brother, but everyone’s trying to fucking… eat me, or something. Look.” And Dean pulls his shirt down, baring the two wounds—and Castiel’s, freshly stinging atop the other two.

Wincing, Sam worms his way out of bed and stands before Dean, unsure of where to put his hands. “Jesus Christ,” he says. Dean nods and bows his head. “Who did you sleep with, a piranha?”

“Madame Tammy,” Dean sighs, “and a siren, thirty minutes ago. Whole town is the siren capital of the fucking country, who knew?”

“You met up with a siren?” Castiel accuses. “And you didn’t tell us—”

“It could’ve killed you,” Sam joins in. “And if you don’t remember, we’re hunting one—”

“And I know where it lives, okay?” Dean shoves his thumbs into the corners of his eyes. “Hear me out, _please_.”

Jaw squared, Sam flops back onto his bed and folds his arms. At Dean’s side, Castiel gathers his composure and sits up, his hands in his lap. Their eyes on him doesn’t make it any easier—if anything, it only makes Dean want to jump in the car and drive to the next town, or continent.

“Back in Alabama, Madame Tammy jumped me,” Dean starts. “Now, I’m not saying I wasn’t a willing participant, because I was, but Cas here cockblocked me, and he wiped her memories. Then tonight, I was gonna walk out to the beach, but someone left a note on my car, and I drove all the way into Gulfport to find a… Shit, a siren brothel, of all things.”

“Who’s the third?” Sam asks, genuinely curious—and all of the blood in Dean’s brain floods to his toes. “You said you had sex three times.”

 _Shit, hell, damn, fuck, shit_. “Beside the point.” Dean waves him off, his words frantic and stumbling over one another. “Point is, I know where the guy lives, and Carlos gave me his good graces to—” _Mother fucker_. “Anyway, we can take care of this tomorrow—”

“He?” Sam balks. “The siren was a—”

Dean bites his tongue hard enough to bleed. “You know what, I’m just gonna go sleep on the beach,” he squawks and grabs his keys. He tosses the room key before he flees in a panic, forgetting his shoes and the rest of his sanity. “I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

“Dean,” Castiel calls out, but Dean leaves before he has a chance to hear anything more.

-+-

Dean doesn’t make it to the beach, only to the backseat of the Impala, where he promptly covers himself with the lone blanket left in the floorboard and hides, hopefully until the world ends.

He never should have left tonight. What he felt in his gut was the nagging call of a house full of sirens, not the longing for the shore, and all he got out of it was an orgasm and a soon-to-be ache in his thighs. Worst of all, he can’t even deny that it was one of the best lays of his life. Top ten, probably, aside from the bite marks. Gingerly, Dean touches his neck, finding indents and crusted blood. Either Carlos or Castiel broke the skin; Dean leans more toward the former.

Thankfully, the night greets him with mostly silence, interrupted every so often by a passing car or someone slamming a door. Dean dozes for a few minutes—maybe thirty, maybe an hour—until in his dream, someone bangs on the door while shouting his name. In reality, it’s Castiel rapping his knuckles on the window and looking inside, a clear apology on his face.

And Dean has never been one to leave him out in the cold. Or warm, whatever.

Sitting up, Dean scoots out of the way, letting Castiel pop open the door and slide in next to him. To Dean’s relief, Castiel stays on his side of the car, taking up as little space as humanly possible. Looking at him hurts, and Dean can’t stop, no matter how hard he tries. “It’s not your fault,” Dean tries. He tilts his head back, staring at the cloth ceiling. “Whatever’s going on, it’s not on you.”

Castiel sighs, sinking into the seat. “What I feel for you has no bearing on the curse,” he says. Casual, like Dean was supposed to know that Castiel has feelings for him. In a way, he supposes he always knew, but having it confirmed in so few words… “It could be affecting your pheromone production,” Castiel says to the window, “but as to why it’s only affecting the supernatural is something I can’t explain.”

“Preaching to the choir,” Dean says, quiet. He pulls the blanket from around his shoulders and shoves it back into the floorboards, out of sight. “I never told Sam that I’m into guys.”

“I figured,” Castiel says. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

Shrugging, Dean sinks further into the seat. “The guy doesn’t knock, man. He’s walked in on me with more people than I can count. I always just thought he… knew.”

Long and low, Castiel hums, a drone in the silence. “Seeing and having it confirmed are two different things. For all he knows, you could be experimenting late in life.”

“Dude, he caught me when I was in high school,” Dean laughs. “Pretty sure seeing me take it up the ass in a closet is confirmation enough.”

A small smile flits over Castiel’s lips, then falls. “I’m sorry I bit you.”

“It’s fine.” Dean waves a hand at him, afterward settling it on Castiel’s thigh. _Warm_. “Are you pissed at me? ‘Cause when I got back, you looked ready to bounce me back into the third circle.”

Chuckling, Castiel shakes his head. “I’m… jealous, I suppose. You’re allowed to… fuck whoever you want, but I didn't realize how much I wanted to be a part of it until now.”

Dean moans low in his throat and squeezes Castiel’s thigh. “Talk dirty to me,” he leers. “Anyone tell you for an angel, you got a dirty mouth? Castiel, angel of the lord, just said _fuck_.”

“Beside the point,” Castiel huffs, but smiles. “What I’m saying is, I just tormented a cosmic entity into releasing me from an eternal prison, and I’ve come to the realization that if I don't explain myself now, that I’ll never get the chance.”

Turning, Castiel pulls his legs onto the bench and creeps closer, palming the bruises marring Dean’s collar. Dean swallows, terrified to look away; his heart pounds, even louder when Castiel kisses him, his lips soft and plush and the slightest bit dry. Castiel pulls away all too soon, but remains close, pressing their foreheads together. “I trust you can interpret that.”

It takes Dean a second, but he smiles and presses his thumb to the corner of Castiel’s lips. “Think I might need some more convincing,” he says, sly, pulling Castiel in. And Castiel goes, all too willingly, the only source of comfort he needs.

-+-

Sometime around the eight-hour mark, Sam’s sluggish forehead bleed turns to a steady trickle, obscuring his vision and making a mess of every piece of clothing Castiel offers him. The minute he resorts to taking off his shirt, Dean calls it quits and pulls off on the next exit—directly into Paris, Texas.

Around them, the streetlights glow along the empty streets, casting the blacktop in an eerie yellow. “It’s not that bad, I swear,” Sam lies through his teeth, the bloodied mess of his t-shirt pressed to the skin above his eye. “I took Ibuprofen, it’s probably thinned my blood out—”

“Either way,” Dean cuts in, “we’re stopping, and I’m gonna look at that thing. I’m not having you bleed out on my seats.” He scans the intersections for any sign of life, and finds the worn signage of a King’s Inn, a maroon beacon in the night. Only three cars sit in the parking lot, and even fewer rooms have their lights on. A good enough place to hide.

Parking on the far end of the lot, Dean throws his door open and heads for the trunk, grabbing up all of the medical supplies he can find. He needs to restock at some point, most of his supplies more than a year old. Hopefully the antiseptic works.

“Alright, let me look at it,” Dean announces and taps on Sam’s door. Reluctantly, Sam undoes the lock and pushes it open, swinging his feet out onto the dirt-covered asphalt. He pulls the shirt free, revealing a nearly five-inch gouge spanning from his temple to the curve of his eye. Blood wells over the second Dean wipes it away, and his heart sinks. “Shit, man,” he breathes. “Fucker got you good.”

“I figured,” Sam sighs. He wrings his bloodied shirt in his lap while Castiel crawls out of the backseat, standing at Dean’s side. “It probably looks worse than it feels.”

“I could heal him,” Castiel suggests, to which Dean shakes his head. “Dean—”

“Look.” Dean dabs at the wound again, his brow furrowed. “You just got back, and I don’t want you to waste whatever Grace you got left on this. We’ll just stitch it up and it’ll be fine.”

Sam squints through the fresh wave of blood leaking into his eye. “Normally I’d agree with you, but I’m starting to get lightheaded,” he admits, to Dean’s horror.

“Why didn’t you say anything—”

“Because I didn’t want you to freak out,” Sam snaps, then recoils. “You’re such a mother hen when one of us gets hurt. Besides, I’m fine, it’s not even that bad.” Sam attempts to stand, only to fall back into his seat, gripping the doorframe like a lifeline. He blinks, swaying. “Okay, maybe not.”

Dean exhales a long, pained breath through his nose and turns to Castiel. He can’t stitch this back together. At worst, Sam needs to go to the hospital, or a drive-thru clinic, both places Dean has no intention to visit. “Fine,” he folds, backing away. “Just this once, but then no more, okay? I’m not having you pass out ‘cause you pulled a wing or something.”

Castiel rolls his eyes hard enough that Dean briefly wonders if they’ll get stuck. Lifting his hand, Castiel places two fingers over the wound and narrows his eyes, just as a bright burst of blue flows from his fingertips into Sam’s skin, knitting the flesh together. Sam hisses and bites his lip, then laughs when Castiel finishes, ducking his head. “See, I told you it wasn’t that bad.”

“You needed medical attention,” Castiel says, deadpan. “And I highly doubt we could’ve kept driving anyway, given the hour.”

“Yeah, Cas here needs his beauty sleep,” Dean teases. Castiel may not need to sleep, sure, but it makes Dean feel better if he tries—and, if he wakes up with Castiel curled around him, then no one has to know. “We’re already here, so might as well bunk for the night and head out in the morning. Good deal?”

Sam nods. “I call first dibs on the shower,” he says, grinning, just as smug as ever. Like Dean and Castiel didn’t get a face full of Siren blood as well—Sam just took the brunt of the blows.

Castiel, on the other hand, remains neutral, aside from the look of disgust on his lips. “I can smell the bed bugs already.”

-+-

_Of the many times Dean ever stayed close to a lake, in only a handful of those has he ever taken the opportunity to swim. Wading in the murky depths, he stands with the water up to his stomach, acutely aware that at any moment, he could slip, or something could grab his leg and yank him under, never to be seen again. But the water is pleasantly warm, and above, the sun beats down, bright and unhindered by the few lingering clouds. Around him, the pines stand tall, and the wind is still, barely cooling the sweat at his hairline._

_Peaceful. The most at peace he’s felt in decades. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” Dean asks no one._

_A voice answers, and the water ripples; small waves splash onto Dean’s side, rocking him gently. Looking over, Dean finds Castiel in a small boat, barely big enough for one person, let alone two. “I couldn’t talk to you when you were awake,” Castiel says and offers a hand. The minute Dean touches him, he shifts through the fabric of the dream and lands on the other side of the boat, knees knocking with Castiel’s. Water drips into the floorboards; Castiel offers him his coat, mostly to preserve his modesty. How he ended up naked is anybody’s guess. “Sam could have died today.”_

_“Okay, that’s an exaggeration,” Dean says, shrugging on Castiel’s coat. “I’ve stitched up worse. He would’ve been fine—”_

_“This isn’t about his wound.” Castiel settles his hand over Dean’s knee. “Jerimiah attacked him. He could very well have been infected and murdered, if we never broke that lock. He thought he saw Rowena—”_

_“Which is a path I don’t wanna go down.” Dean folds his arms. “I get it, okay? This is something I do, I ignore it until it gets too bad, and then I try to fix it, even when I can’t do a damn thing. I just—I panicked, okay? I was trying to keep you guys safe, and that meant getting us all out of town.”_

_Castiel rubs Dean’s shoulder, his eyes downcast. “You did what you could. And because of that, we’re alive. But you shouldn't bear the responsibility alone. Everything that happens isn’t your fault.”_

_Dean sighs through his nose, pulling Castiel’s coat tighter. “I know,” he says. “And I’m trying. I swear to God, I’m trying, and it always feels like I’m screwing up. And whatever’s going on right now, with these monsters crawling all over me, it’s gonna screw up whatever…” He waves a hand between them. “This is. Are we anything?”_

_Castiel smiles, soft, almost shy. “When I told you that we shared a profound bond, I meant it. No matter where we are, we’re irrevocably bound, and though the world tries, it can’t separate us. But, that may just be a fantasy of mine.”_

_“Hell of a fantasy,” Dean says, but smiles anyway. Castiel slides his hand down, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s wrist. “I hate it.”_

_“Hate what?” Castiel asks, purely curious. Anyone else would walk out the door at those three words—but Castiel stays, and places their palms together, fingers laced._

_“Just—this.” Shaking his head, Dean looks out at the lake. Black creeps around the edges of the horizon. Might as well say it now, before he wakes up. “That it took this long. That you had to die before I thought about, hey, I’m actually in…” The world lurches—Dean holds onto Castiel, and Castiel clings right back. “I’m in love with you, okay?”_

_Castiel grins and leans forward—and Dean wakes before he can feel the warmth of Castiel’s kiss._

-+-

The road from Texas to Kansas is long and straight, with little by way of scenery save for fields and flat land. Once they pull into the Bunker’s garage, Dean can hear the way the Impala’s engine creaks and pops, overheated in a way he hasn’t seen of her in a long, long while. Probably something to do with the temperatures climbing to near one hundred, or the fact that when the road straightened out, Dean hit the accelerator and let her fly for a few miles, just to feel a spark of adrenaline from nothing more than speed. No monsters, no imminent threat of death—just speed.

Sam prayed to every god in existence to get Dean to stop; Dean just laughed and slammed his foot down.

Hours later, and Dean sits in the front seat of the Impala, listening to the sounds of the engine and the blissful quiet of the garage. No Sam, no Castiel, just him and Baby for a few moments of absolute silence. Because on the other side of the door, Sam is making a phone call, and Castiel is waiting for the arrival of the last person Dean wants to see.

 _Rowena_.

“But she can help,” Dean mocks, mimicking Sam. “Very fucking funny, Sammy.” Rolling his eyes, he slides further into his seat, until his knees bend painfully and he disappears beneath the lip of the window. Yes, Rowena can probably help, but explaining the situation went so well the first time, and considering two creatures have already jumped him in the last forty-eight hours, he would barely put it past her to try.

“Why,” Dean groans, petulant. “Why’d it have to be me?”

Voices begin to make their way through the halls after a while. Reluctantly, Dean climbs out of the Impala and makes his way inside, dragging his duffel across the concrete floor. Better to get it over with than to wallow—though, now more than any other time, Dean would prefer if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. Hell would be preferable to talking about his sex life with the woman who knows what fifth base is. The same woman, his libido supplies, that would peg him if he asked nicely.

 _Shut up_ , Dean berates himself. _Shut up shut up shut up_.

Tossing his bag in his room, Dean begins his uneventful search for any signs of life. Sam, thankfully, is nowhere to be found in the library or the war room, and soft rock plays from behind his bedroom door. Along the way, Dean finds Castiel in the kitchen, standing in front of the open refrigerator while Rowena sits on top of the stainless-steel dining table, legs crossed and her emerald dress draped over her knees. Under the fluorescent lights, her red hair glows, fire-bright and outright terrifying.

“Well, look who we have here,” Rowena drawls and pats her knee. Her rings clink together. “Figured you’d show up sometime with that pretty face of yours.”

 _Great, it’s already happening_. “Don’t really have a choice, now, do I?” Dean says, plastering on his best grin. “Guess Sam called the cavalry?”

“And I was the only one available,” she quips. “Though, I was the only one he called. And hearing about your predicament,” she stops to look him up and down, her gaze lascivious, “I can see why you’d need my assistance.”

“Rowena,” Castiel warns. Turning, he leans against the island and folds his arms. “The curse?”

“Right, right. The curse.” She offers Dean a hand, beckoning him closer. “Come here and let’s see what’s got you and your boy toy so upset.”

“He’s not my—” Dean starts, but gives up. Hanging his head, Dean obeys and lets Rowena take his hand, all too willingly on her part. “So Sam told you the whole thing, huh?”

“Not in as much graphic detail as I’d like, but yes,” Rowena says. She closes her eyes and brings his hand to her nose. Dean looks over to Castiel, unsure of what else to do. “Castiel, what did you say he smells like?”

Castiel shifts on his feet. “Roses. The witch we’re suspecting might be the culprit used lavender in her spell.”

“She wasn’t even a witch,” Dean complains and pinches the bridge of his nose. “The leader of her coven—”

“High priestess,” Rowena corrects him.

Dean bites his tongue, fighting off a scream. “Fine, the high priestess was having kids go around and murder people. Innocent people, who probably didn't even know she existed. And this girl, Chieli, she decided to improvise with whatever she was putting in her hex bags.”

Rowena clicks her tongue. “Amateurs. Without the right influence, you’re only bound to make mistakes. But in this case, you’ve been cursed, my dear.” She skates her nails up the inside of his arm, under the damp fabric of his Henley. “Angel, darling, what did you say our little vixen meant to do?”

Castiel strands up straighter, but not by much, the exhaustion visible on his face. Nine hours in a car is never friendly to anyone—not even to angels, apparently. “Relocation. She intended to force us from the room, but she never finished the spell in time.”

Humming, Rowena releases Dean and crosses her legs the slightest bit tighter. “What your affliction is, my dear, is pheromone amplification. Only, humans aren’t the ones who can scent you, it’s the creatures you hunt.”

Great. Just great. Exactly what he expected, but to have it confirmed… “Great, so I’m some sort of… monster fucker, then. What, am I gonna spend the rest of my life turning down vamps? ‘Cause they could kill me, and I’ve already gotten a lifetime’s worth of bites in the last few days.” For emphasis, he pulls down his collar; Rowena winces and touches her fingertips to the bruises, now purpled and edged in green.

“Unfortunately for you,” Rowena starts, tracing her nail back and forth, “there’s no immediate cure. At the very most, it may last for a month.”

“A month?” Dean blanches. He reaches for something to lean on and finds Castiel’s shoulder instead. “Lady, if I gotta go a month like this, I’m gonna die. ‘Cause a siren and a witch? Child’s play to what’s out there.”

“Oh, calm yourself.” Rowena laughs and stands, smoothing her dress down. “The only time you’ll be propositioned is if you happen upon someone. A wendigo won’t be knocking down your door any time soon.”

And thank God for that. The teeth are nasty enough.

“Now, I could be wrong.” Gathering up her pocketbook, Rowena slings the strap over her shoulder and makes her way to the door. “Castiel here may have another solution I haven’t thought of. You’ll find out in time. Oh, and Dean?” She turns with a glint in her eye. Dean hates that look—hates the question she asks, as well. “Who was the third person you fornicated with?”

“Out, out.” Dean waves her out of the room, ignoring the blush creeping up his neck. “Thanks for your help, but I think we’ve got it covered from here.”

And Rowena cackles, her grin wicked. “Oh, so _that’s_ —”

“Out!”

-+-

Some nights, Dean takes the truck from the motor pool—a navy blue ‘30s Chevy with a grill that could cut through a Prius and keep going—and drives a few miles down the road, just to hear his own thoughts. Tonight, still bone-weary from the trip, he parks under the stars on a farm road and climbs into the bed, tailgate popped down and a blanket stretched over the wooden slats. Castiel joins him, still dressed in his pajamas with creases matted into his face, hair stuck up at every angle.

He can’t sleep, and Castiel was close to passed out in the library anyway; inviting him seemed like the lesser evil, rather than explaining just why he was leaving in the middle of the night. _It’s not safe to go alone_ , Dean can hear him say. Any other time, and Dean would disagree with him. Given his current predicament, maybe Castiel knows what he’s talking about.

Castiel settles into the blanket and hugs one of the two stashed pillows to his chest, curled on his side. Drawing an arm around him, Dean tucks Castiel close and watches the scant clouds pass above in the abyss, blotting out stars and the moon on occasion. A faint breeze rustles the sunflower fields, cooling the sweat beading along Dean’s hairline. Two in the morning, and the heat still persists, even more so with Castiel pressed up against him.

Resting a hand atop his stomach, Dean exhales until his lungs ache. “Do you ever feel like you’re living a lie?” he asks, still as the night.

“Very profound,” Castiel says through a yawn. “Though, the stars do have that effect on people.”

“I’m serious.” He squeezes Castiel’s shoulder. “Like… our lives can’t be this chaotic on accident, right? You don’t think someone’s pulling the strings and we don’t know about it?”

Long and low, Castiel hums. “Are you saying this because of the curse, or are you having an existential crisis?”

“Both? Neither?” Honestly, Dean doesn’t know. Probably because of the curse, but looking at the sky, he feels… small. Insignificant in the grand scheme, a cog in an impossibly large system of wheels. “Everything is happening so fast, and I can’t… I can’t believe you’re back, man.” A laugh, brittle. “I spent so long hoping, praying you’d come back to me, and then you did, and… What are we supposed to do now?”

“I suppose we can move on, as best we can,” Castiel suggests. He moves closer, resting his head atop Dean’s pec, and Dean holds him tighter. “For once, I’d rather not think of the consequences and just… accept it. Not everything in the world has to have reason, Dean.”

Dean spends a long few seconds staring up at the sky, struggling to find any and every constellation he can. “Just feel like there’s a motive,” he says. “Like, the other shoe’s gonna drop, and someone’s gonna try to yank you away from me.”

“They’ll have to fight me, then,” Castiel says with mirth. Pushing up on an elbow, Castiel leans over Dean and presses a featherlight kiss to his forehead. “Because I don’t intend to leave this time, not if I can help it.”

The next kiss, Dean takes the initiative; he pulls Castiel in, reveling in his sigh and the softness of his lips. Too tenderly, Castiel traces his knuckles across Dean’s cheek, so soft that briefly, Dean wonders if Castiel isn’t touching him with a wing. “Hey,” Dean says after a moment. “How come you’re not trying to jump my bones right now?”

“I have an incredible amount of patience,” Castiel says. “And concentration.” His eyes drift down, landing on the bruise; Dean’s stomach clenches in a strange sense of terrified anticipation. “I can heal it, if you want.”

Swallowing, Dean asks, “This gonna involve teeth?”

Castiel pushes Dean’s night shirt aside, petting kisses across the bruise. “Only if you want it to.”

 _Just because it’s him_ , Dean decides, baring his throat. “Go to town, then.”

-+-

“Harpies,” Dean repeats for what feels like the tenth time. “I mean, have you ever seen a harpy? Do they even exist?”

Thumbing his temples, Dean flops down onto the motel mattress, not even bothered by the dust wafting up. Next door, someone has decided to smoke their way through one too many bowls, and no amount of Febreze can even make a dent in the stench. Genuinely, Dean wonders if secondhand highs are actually a thing.

From in front of the mirror, Castiel loosens his tie and slides it from around his neck, a soft swish of fabric that never fails to get Dean’s attention. Dean leans up on his elbows and watches him change, or at least take off his coat. This morning, the local news forecasts a high of close to ninety-eight—and Dean decided to pick a hunt in Arkansas, epicenter of the heat wave.

“They’re extremely limited in number,” Castiel explains, folding his coat over the back of the desk chair. “They’re the daughters of Thaumas and Electra, though I suppose it depends on which poet you ask, where their lineage lies. Supposedly, Gabriel was the last angel to see them.” His face pinches in the mirror. “I wish that didn't make sense.”

“Yeah, angel hooking up with half-human bird women?” Dean shakes his head. “Sounds like something Gabe’d do.”

“Unfortunately,” Castiel sighs. “But from the injuries we saw on the victims, none of the wounds match up to a supposed harpy attack. For one, they still had their organs.”

“I’d figure that’s a good thing,” Dean says. From the trip to the coroner’s office last night, the only thing he immediately latched onto were three severed throats and three gutted torsos. All of it reminded him of a bird attack. “When was the last time anyone saw a roc?”

“The last one was accidently killed by a farmer about fifty years ago,” Castiel says. Jacket set aside, Castiel rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. “And there wouldn’t’ve been a body left behind for us to find.”

“Could always be a bear.” Dean shrugs and falls back down, wrinkling his nose. “Man, why can’t this be any easier? For all we know, it could be demons, or a rabid eagle. Who knows what’s in these woods?”

Castiel unfortunately agrees. “I’m not saying it isn’t a harpy.” He crosses the room to sit at Dean’s side. “But if it is, they’re incredibly dangerous creatures. They’ve killed men for less than a look.”

“So don’t look if I find one, got it,” Dean says, then grins. “How are we supposed to kill it if I can’t see it?”

“You make things incredibly difficult.” Castiel throws his head back, and Dean can practically feel his frustration. If only it wasn’t so hilarious. “Angel blades should kill them, if all else fails.”

“Right.” With a groan, Dean pushes up off the bed, his spine twinging on the way up. _I’m getting too old for this_. “If we find out it’s a bear, I’m getting back in the car. Cops can handle this one.”

“At least we can say we went hiking,” Castiel says, wistful about it. “We’ve never done it for fun.”

One day, then, Dean decides. “Pick a place and we’ll go,” he says. “In the winter, though, because I’m gonna sweat my ass off, and it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

Castiel nods, their shoulders brushing. “Agreed.”

-+-

Of all the times Dean has ever trampled through the woods, only three of those included a waterfall at the end of the trail. Most of the time, he wanders until he happens upon a den or a nest, or the creature finds him first. Never for leisure, never because he woke up one morning and decided to drive ten hours to stroll down a dirt path for the hell of it.

But the heat is always the same, especially the further south he travels. Stripped down to his undershirt, Dean downs the last of his first water bottle and goes for his second, shoving the empty container in his backpack. “It’s not fair,” he whines and slings his head in Castiel’s direction. “You get angelic air conditioning, and I get heat stroke.”

“You don’t have heat stroke,” Castiel groans. “It’s only been thirty minutes. You’ve been through worse.”

“Yeah, bring up Hell, why don’t you.” Dean jabs his finger into Castiel’s bicep. “Think I’ve just gotten too used to air conditioning. Or I’m getting old. Last night, I woke up to pee twice. Twice, Cas, you know what that’s like?”

“You know I don't.” With a sigh, Castiel reaches over to take Dean’s backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. Dean rolls his shoulders, thankful for the loss. “How wise do you think it is to split up? The trail forks up ahead.”

“Could always try,” Dean says. In reality, splitting up makes the most logical sense. If anything, the park is small enough that if something happened, all one of them needed to do is scream, or in Dean’s case, pray. “We can cover more ground that way. But something goes south, you call me, okay?”

Castiel nods. His knuckles blanch as he grips the backpack’s strap; Dean knows that fear all too well, has experienced it too many times to count. What if when Sam walked off, if that was the last time Dean saw him alive? What if when Castiel—

 _Don’t think about it_ , Dean thinks, shoving it down. Not again. Never again.

Castiel takes the path leading further into the pines. Soon, Dean watches him walk out of sight, and all Dean hears is his own labored breathing and squirrels in the branches. A deer watches him at a distance, its black, beady eyes unblinking. Turning, Dean walks as quickly as he can down the other path, stomping over downed branches and dying leaves with his boots. The further he treads, the darker the forest becomes, a combination of the thickening canopy and the dying sun.

“This better be a fucking bear,” Dean says to himself. Sam was wrong. Sam has to be wrong. Harpies don’t just appear on a hunter’s radar just because. They’re old—ancient, even—and Sam sent them to Arkansas all because of a hunch? “Should’ve had your ass down here helping.”

Dean hears the waterfall before he sees it, the crashing water echoing constantly through the trees. He follows the sound on instinct, acutely aware that the only thing he has to defend himself is tucked into the back of his pants. Castiel has his bag with all of their other weapons, if they need them—and all Dean has is an angel blade. _Great_. Just the position he hates being in, vulnerable and prone to attack.

Said attack never comes, not that he expected it. Quiet as the forest is, all Dean hears is water and the rustling canopy, and the soft noise of a woman’s voice. Not talking to anyone in particular, but singing. Stepping from the path and into a clearing, Dean finds a small lake at the bottom of the waterfall, surrounded by a wall of rock jutting high on either side. Scrubs and moss grow from between the cracks in the rock, and cedar and pines sprout along the banks.

And amid it all, something swims beneath the water’s surface, sending up two trails parallel to one another. Dean stands and watches a few feet from the rocky shore, tongue thick in his throat and the sudden urge to run nearly taking over. _Harpies are real_ , he repeats and grabs for the angel blade. _Harpies are real, and I’m gonna die_ —

A mass of black hair rises from the depths, along with a pair of jet-black wings, the feathers inky blotches in the dwindling light. Elegantly, the woman claws her way to the shore and stands on taloned feet, her scales dark, spanning up to her knees in thick patches. With clawed hands, she brushes her hair out of her face, revealing vibrantly yellow eyes and scales lining her temple and cheeks, none of it doing anything to distract from her—beauty.

“Wait,” Dean says aloud, pointedly keeping his eyes on the harpy’s face. _Naked_ , he reminds himself. _Don’t look at her while she’s naked_. “You’re—You’re gorgeous.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the harpy says and spreads her wings. She gives them a generous shake, wringing the water from her feathers in one flap. “Did you expect me to be a monstrosity? Men loved to spin tales of how abhorrent we were,” she explains, walking closer. Rocks scatter at her feet, her talons digging into the sand. “All because we killed men. Just men, by the way. Women praised us for our beauty.” She stops to touch a claw to the underside of his chin. “But men were jealous. Men hated us, so they told everyone we were abominations. Monsters, with a bloodlust that could only be sated by death.”

She stops—and laughs, her pointed teeth showing. _For the love of God, don’t bite me_. “I’m Eleni. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No. Yeah, kinda—Jesus.” Dean steps back and drops the blade, tumbling down to sit on a slick rock. Eleni joins him, kneeling with such grace that Dean wonders if she’s not a figment of his imagination. “Look, did you happen to kill anyone around here? Because if you didn’t, then I’ll go—”

“But I don’t want you to go.” Eleni grabs his wrist, her claws circling him. She’s strong; if she wanted, she could hold him down by his head and squeeze him until he popped. “You’re wondering about the three hikers, yes?”

Dean nods, mouth gone dry.

“Bear,” Eleni says, and— _oh thank God_. “I killed him yesterday. He tasted like rabies.”

“Good,” Dean says, winded. “I mean, sucks for the bear, but at least it’s not—”

“A harpy?” she asks, unconcerned. “I haven’t killed a human in several hundred years, child. The most you have to worry about with me is whether you’ll last more than fifteen seconds.”

Oh— _Oh_. Of course, how could he forget? A beautiful woman attracted to him, decidedly of the monster-kind. If only Dean could admit she wasn’t doing _things_ to him, from the way she slips between his legs, palms running up the insides of his jeans. “You smell me too, huh?”

“I could smell you for miles,” Eleni hums, her voice melodic, easing the fear in his gut. “You and the other creature you brought. But you’re more enticing. Your scent could soothe even the most savage of beasts.”

Eleni presses a kiss over the sweat-sticky fabric of his shirt, sinking her teeth into it. Cautiously, Dean touches her hair, only to feel her rumble in praise. “You’re into this, right?” he asks. Just to make sure—for all he knows, the curse could be coercing her, or any of them. “Like, no one’s forcing you—”

“I want what I want,” she says, glaring up at him. “But if you’re not willing, then I’ll be more than happy to—”

Dean doesn’t let her finish that statement. No matter her intentions—to kill him, to crawl back into the water, to drag him down with her—he ignores them and kisses her, fingers buried in her hair, her lips warm against his. Eleni seizes his wrists again, but doesn’t attempt to rip him away, nor does she threaten to tear his arms off. Instead, she stands and drags him against her, her breasts pressed up against his shirt. Her kiss stings, her teeth tugging at his lips with the intention of drawing blood—and Dean lets her, enthralled by her warmth and her strength, even when she shoves him onto the rocky shore. He rips his shirt off before Eleni straddles his waist, her wings arched high and wide, presenting herself. Dean can’t look away.

In the back of his mind, he knows Castiel is on a fruitless hunt. Somewhere, Castiel is waiting for Dean’s inevitable call—and Dean hopes on every god in existence, that he doesn’t hear this next part.

Flipping a harpy over takes more maneuvering than it should, given her wingspan and the strength in her bones. But somehow, Dean manages to get Eleni onto her back, her ebony wings spread wide on the rocks. Castiel’s would be the same, he thinks—he _knows_ , deep in his gut. A flicker of a memory flashes before his eyes, of fire and smoke and darkness—and wings, scalding and broken and _real_ , surrounding him, shielding him from the horrors Dean knew were waiting for him.

But Hell isn’t here. Here, Eleni gasps and claws at his shoulders as Dean kisses a line down her throat, then between her breasts. Looking up, he watches her curse and rip a gouge into the granite beneath them. It should terrify him, should do something other than turn him on, but Dean’s brain has never quite agreed with him when it comes to sex. Eleni’s responsiveness spurs him on, coupled with her gasps and the subtle roll of her hips, a not-so-silent plea.

The moment he kisses her clit, Eleni’s wing slaps the ground, splintering the rock in several pieces. Rather than pay attention to it—or panic, really—Dean palms her thighs open and delves in, her body trembling, begging. She grabs ahold of his skull and digs her claws in, not enough to draw blood, but a reminder; though, given the circumstances, Dean doubts she has the heart to kill him, especially when he licks up her slit, gathering up her wetness and letting it paint his lips.

Eleni moans a whimper and lifts her hips, chasing him— _It’s on_.

Dean would need several hands to count all of the women he’s slept with. Some of them, he remembers their names, or how they bossed him around while they rode his cock. None of them were ever as loud as Eleni, and she’s not faking, either. Flicking his tongue across her clit, he wonders how long it’s been since someone touched her, since someone really took their time and teased her, worked their tongue into her. The last man didn’t take care of her—the last man didn’t suck her clit and work her into a fever, didn’t let her ride his face like she might die without it.

She comes before he even gets his fingers into her, and again when he does, fingertips curled in and massaging the spot he knows she can feel. Eleni falls and falls, her words a string of choked screams as she paints his lips and chin in her wetness. She contracts around him, body taut and her talons tearing into the back of his jeans. She groans her way through a third, until she pushes him away. Just enough, before she surges forward and kisses him, driving her tongue against his. “Fill me,” she begs and grabs for his pants. “You can’t mate with me.”

 _Good_ , Dean thinks. While kids might be nice someday, having a half-human child with a harpy is nowhere on his list of priorities. And his condoms are back in the Impala, along with the rest of his sanity.

Dean manages to untangle from Eleni long enough to kick his socks and shoes off, afterward shucking his jeans and briefs and tossing them far from the shore. Eleni drags him down on top of her with little effort, burying her face in Dean’s neck and scraping her teeth over the juncture of his throat. She could bite him. She could tear his throat open, and he wouldn’t care, not with how she opens to him when he pushes inside, her warmth incredibly distracting. Moaning, Dean glances down to where they’re joined and works a hand between them; he circles her clit with his thumb, watching her writhe, gold eyes rolled back in her head.

“That good?” he asks, rhetorical. Because she feels good, all tight heat and pressure working around his cock, begging him to go deeper. “That what you wanted?”

“Don’t question me,” Eleni growls.

The anger on her lips doesn't match the lust in her eyes, and Dean kisses her until she melts. Her wings relax and curl up and around him, a shield from the world as he thrusts. Slow, at first, despite the gnawing ache in his gut demanding for him to _take_. She might kill him if he doesn’t last—hell, Dean might jump in the lake in shame.

Thinking about something else helps. Unfortunately, something becomes someone, and the hairs rise on the back of Dean’s neck, almost certain that said someone is watching. Eleni keeps him distracted with her kisses and her soft moans, her hips rising to meet his. He takes the opportunity to caress her breast, teasing her nipple well past the point of hardness with his tongue. He fingers her clit until she howls and seizes, tightening around his cock, viselike, with the intent to milk him dry.

By some miracle, Dean holds off—but only just. Digging his toes into the sand, Dean grabs the rock above Eleni’s head for leverage and kisses her throat, working his cock into her. Faster now, skin-against-skin echoing in the clearing, and Eleni begs for him, begs for his _seed_ and every other nasty thing that has ever gotten Dean hard. Sweat breaks out across his skin as his muscles tighten and fight to move, to bury himself.

Dean groans into her throat when the tension builds and crests; Eleni rakes her claws up his spine and the cord snaps, release washing over him. Black creeps into the corners of his vision, only clearing after a few long, breathless seconds. All the while, Eleni pets him with her scaly knuckles, pressing kisses to his neck, his cheek. “My good boy,” she sing-songs, clenching around his softening cock. “So good for me.”

By chance, Dean looks up while Eleni sucks a bruising mark to his neck—and finds Castiel standing at the entrance of the clearing. He looks pissed at a glance—but his slacks tent obscenely, all from watching. _How much did he see_? “Fuck,” Dean moans and drops his head. _Fuck_ …

-+-

“Perhaps we should set some boundaries,” Castiel says as he slides into the passenger seat.

Dean tosses the backpack and their blades into the backseat while Castiel tries, and fails, to adjust himself for the fifth time. Just looking at him, Dean’s cock attempts to spring to life, but ultimately remains soft in his jeans. Maybe years ago, he could’ve gotten it up again right after, but at this age, he’s lucky if he can go twice in two hours. “It’s not my fault,” Dean groans and pats the steering wheel. “I swear, it’s not like I have a sign over my head that says ‘Free Cock Rides.’”

At his side, Castiel sighs and sinks into his seat, the predicament in his pants ignored, but certainly not forgotten. “I know,” he says. “But I’m not used to this… jealousy, of watching you. I know you’re afflicted by a curse, and you can’t control yourself—”

“Whoa, whoa.” Dean turns in his seat, one knee on the bench. “I can control myself just fine. You said it yourself, it’s all pheromones or whatever. They’re already attracted to me, and I’m just giving them what they want.”

Castiel looks at him, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion and persistent lust. “You don’t feel pressured?” he asks. “They could kill you if they wanted.”

“But they won’t.” Rubbing his eyes, Dean sags. “Look, I know I’ve had a pretty shitty string of partners, but it’s not like I find the ones that’re gonna…” He shakes his head. “Point is, no one’s forcing me to do anything. And no one’s forcing them, either. I mean, Eleni made it pretty clear that she wanted it, and I think she knew about the whole curse deal.”

“The older ones would,” Castiel says. Again, he fidgets with his belt—

And Dean stops him, gripping Castiel’s wrist. “You want help?” he asks, sincere. “’Cause I can suck you off if you want.”

Castiel shakes his head; shame heats his cheeks, spreading down his neck. “I don’t want to make you feel obligated,” he says. “It’ll go down on its own.”

“Dude.” Dean squeezes Castiel’s wrist tighter. “I’m not obligated to do anything. I want to, there’s a difference. Besides, you put up with a lot and…” Leaning in, Dean presses a kiss to the bolt of Castiel’s jaw. “’C’mon, it’s the least you deserve. You can keep talking while I’m down here.”

At first, Castiel just stares at him, a crazed look in his eyes, like he might run the second Dean gets a hand on him. Apparently, hand jobs only go one way, and that way doesn’t involve Castiel being on the receiving end. As the seconds go on, Castiel loosens and shifts, legs drawn up in the bench, his back to the door. The only streetlight nearby is on the other side of the parking lot, leaving the interior of the Impala dark, and the rest of her invisible to passersby. The park gates close at nine. Dean has to make this quick.

Without light, Dean relies on his hands to tell him where to go, along with Castiel’s sharp breaths and the hands on his shoulders, struggling like he can’t decide whether to push Dean away or pull him closer. He tugs Castiel’s zipper, loud in the building silence, and works his slacks and boxers down, just enough to get Castiel’s cock out. Genuinely, Dean wishes he could see it, because it feels amazing, blood-warm and thick in his hand, wet at the tip where he leaked through his boxers.

Dean touches him, gently at first, pressing open-mouthed kisses up the length of his cock. Castiel lets out a breath and fists Dean’s Henley, his hands shaking. “It’s alright,” he soothes and pushes Castiel’s thighs open. Castiel rests his heel atop the back of Dean’s thigh. “C’mon. You said something about boundaries.”

Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but moans instead, a high-pitched whine that thrills Dean. Licking across his slit, Dean pushes back the foreskin and takes Castiel into his mouth, reveling in the softness of his skin; precome floods his senses, and Dean groans, wrapping a hand around his length. Years ago, he would make a show of it and might take Castiel to the back of his throat, depending on how much alcohol he had in his system. Approaching the ripe old age of forty, Dean doesn’t even try, solely focusing his efforts on hollowing his cheeks and stroking what he can’t fit in his mouth. Castiel’s size doesn’t help matters. Dean wonders how he walks around with it, based on how he stretches his lips.

Idly, Castiel strokes through Dean’s hair, tugging whenever Dean pulls off to kiss the head, laving the flat of his tongue over his slit. “I want you,” Castiel breathes, a lip between his teeth. “I want you to remember that, when you’re with them. Just—I hate watching you.”

“Knowing it’s not me?” Dean asks, and Castiel nods. Leaning up, Dean kisses him with precome on his tongue; Castiel moans and drags him closer, spurred on by Dean leisurely stroking him, keeping him interested. “Swear we’re gonna figure this out,” he whispers before sinking back into Castiel’s lap and swallowing him again.

“There—has to be something,” Castiel says. Head thrown back, he alternates between pulling Dean’s hair and raking his nails along his scalp, both sending shivers down Dean’s spine. If only he could get it up again; they have time, as long as Castiel doesn’t intend this to be a one-time deal. “We haven’t checked the spell books. We’ve only taken Rowena’s—word on it— _Dean_.”

Dean looks up at him and winks, lecherous as ever. Castiel doesn’t say much after that, too busy trying to breathe while Dean takes him further. He struggles to relax his jaw, but after a while, he gives up and concentrates on the head, licking underneath Castiel’s foreskin and teasing each and every vein with his tongue. Castiel surges up and clings to Dean’s shirt in an attempt to pull him even closer. His hips twitch, and Dean chases him, still managing to keep a distance; as much as he loves swallowing, being choked isn’t on his mind tonight, and Castiel would probably shove Dean onto his cock if it weren’t for his restraint.

Castiel doesn’t last much longer, not with Dean slipping his hand further into Castiel’s slacks to fondle his balls. He barely manages to give Dean any warning before he grabs the back of Dean’s head and holds him still, hips twitching while he spills warmth onto Dean’s tongue and down his chin, a seemingly endless pulse that leaves Dean wondering if this is how he dies, by drowning in angel come. Long after the wave crashes and Castiel finishes, he holds Dean there, twitching and writhing while Dean cleans up the last of his come with his tongue. Just because he can—just because Castiel likes it.

Eventually, Dean worms his way from Castiel’s grasp and shoves him up against the window, stealing a kiss. And Castiel hungers for him, licking the taste of himself from Dean’s mouth, from the mess dripping off his chin. “We should do that again,” he pants.

And Dean laughs, smothering Castiel with another kiss. “Next time,” he promises. “Maybe somewhere with a lamp.”

-+-

For once, Dean doesn’t dream. His typical nightmares of watching Sam leave him or Castiel’s last dying breath abate for one night, kept at bay by Castiel’s arm around him, their bodies pressed close under the cheap comforter. Every few hours, Dean wakes to the soft white fluorescent glow floating in through the crack in the curtains, but Castiel’s warmth drags him back under, until night turns to morning, and sunlight falls directly into his eyes.

Turning doesn’t get rid of the sunspots; if anything, it only casts the beam into Castiel’s face, who groans and fights to shove the covers over their heads. “I hate driving,” Castiel laments, rubbing his eyes. “Flying is easier.”

“When was the last time you tried?” Dean asks. He might as well get up now; unless Castiel’s wings magically decide to carry his weight, there’s a nine-hour drive ahead of them. “You’ve still got your wings, right?”

Solemnly, Castiel nods.

Crawling out of bed, Dean makes his way to the coffee machine in nothing but his briefs; he shivers from the loss of Castiel’s heat, but forces himself not to dive back in. If he does, they’ll never leave, as tempting as the idea may be. _I miss my bed_.

Sitting up, Castiel rubs his eyes. “They’re broken,” he says. The words Dean always feared—that Castiel will never fly again. “They’re fully functional, but… there’s something wrong. Heaven’s gates have reopened, yet I still can’t make it off the ground.”

 _Strange._ “What if you’re—” he starts, his throat tight. Not that he hasn’t thought about it before, what would it be like if it happened. What would it be like if Castiel was one of them? Mortality strapped to his back, a perpetual clock over his head, just like every other human in existence. Why it terrifies him so bad, Dean doesn’t know—or, rather, he refuses to think about it. “What if you’re falling?”

Castiel doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t confirm Dean’s suspicions, either. “Would it be so bad?” he asks. The bed creaks; bare feet pad across the carpet. “If I were human.”

Dean shudders. He shouldn’t tell Castiel—shouldn’t ever mention it, but the words spill from his lips before he can shove them back down. “When you… When you died, it broke something in me, Cas. Something I didn't even realize was there, and there were all these what ifs. What if this is the last time, what if I never told you. And that was just with an angel blade. Shit, you could get hit by a car, or have a heart attack, or cancer…” Dean turns, his eyes pinched shut. “I don’t wanna lose you again. I’m so _tired_ of losing you.”

Warm arms circle Dean’s waist; settling his hands atop Dean’s stomach, Castiel kisses Dean’s nape. “You’re going to lose me, one day,” Castiel says. And deep down, Dean knows. One day, he’ll wake up, and Castiel will be dead and gone, or Castiel will find him dead in his sleep, and Dean won’t see him again. Monsters are preventable; aging, not so much. “But that doesn't mean you have to live every day in fear, just because you’re afraid. You’re living your life wrong.”

Dean shakes his head, barely bothering to laugh. “Then what am I supposed to do? It’s been… way too damn long, Cas. Too damn long since I’ve felt like…” Words are hard—feelings, even harder. Castiel continues with his kisses while Dean fights for an explanation that doesn’t sound like he ripped it straight from the headlines of a Hallmark movie. “What do you think?” he asks. “About falling. ‘Cause your first go around wasn’t all sunshine and daisies.”

Humming, Castiel rests his cheek against Dean’s shoulder. “If I were to fall, this time, I feel like I have a say. I think,” he says, squeezing Dean tighter, “that I’m weaker than I have been, but I’m not falling. You don’t have to worry about me.”

 _But I can’t help it_. “You know that’s not gonna stop me, right?”

“I know,” Castiel says, then sighs. “It won’t stop me either.”

-+-

The world is conspiring against him, Dean knows. Never in his life has he happened upon as many back-to-back cases as he has in the last week, and all of them have ended up with him in some state of undress and more than sore the next morning. Just outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma and five hours from home, Sam calls with a hunt—but not an ordinary hunt, no.

“Dragons,” Dean groans in a Phillips 66 parking lot, repeatedly thumping his forehead against the steering wheel. “’It’ll take you a day, Dean. It’s probably nothing, Dean.’ Then why don’t you take care of it?”

“Well, we are closer,” Castiel says through the window.

Stepping inside, Castiel slams the door shut and hands Dean a white plastic bag. Dean fishes past the bag of Jolly Ranchers and swiss rolls to find a knife sharpener. Not that Bruncvik needs much attention, but better safe than sorry, given the last few years. Instead of a humanoid creature, he could be dealing with Drogon. Just how he wants to die, being swallowed whole. Castiel can’t drag him back from that.

“No one’s even died.” Dean drops the bag into the backseat and rubs his temples. “Since when are we doing house calls? Last time I checked, we weren’t monster babysitters.”

“Things change,” Castiel says. The corner of his mouth lifts dangerously. “You seem to have a different occupation at the moment.”

“Oh shut up.” Shoving his shoulder doesn’t stop Castiel from laughing. “Come on, man. I already feel like a slut, don’t need to rub it in.”

Castiel calms after a moment, only after he pats Dean’s knee, palming him through the denim. “I think you’re a victim of circumstances,” he says in all honesty. “Any other time, and I don't think you’d be interested.”

Truth be told, Castiel is right. The last few months—hell, years, even—between recovering from a sudden bout of demon possession to Castiel dying, finding the time to get naked in someone’s company has been few and far between. And now, five times in a week? “So why haven’t we hit a homer?” Dean asks while Castiel leans over the bench to grab a bag of Jolly Ranchers. “I mean, handies and blow jobs are great, don’t get me wrong.”

Castiel rips open the bag and takes the first wrapper he finds. “I’ve thought about it,” he says, candy tucked into his cheek. “But given how long it took us to kiss, I think we can put it off for a while.”

Dean sighs, mostly in relief. “Much as I’d like to fuck like rabbits, my dick’s gonna fall off if I come again.”

“That’s also a factor,” Castiel says, amused. His smile falls, eyes distant. “I’m afraid of what I might do right now, given this… curse. The other monsters you’ve slept with, I’m stronger than them. If I gave myself over, I could hurt you.”

“But you won’t.” Resting his arm atop the bench, Dean turns to Castiel and tries not to laugh at his blue tongue. “I know you, and curse or not, you’re not gonna hurt me.”

Castiel frowns. “Back in Gulfport, I couldn't stop myself. I could smell you before you walked in the door, and I wanted to… touch you.”

“Just touch?” Dean teases. Castiel rolls his eyes. “Maybe it’s messing with you differently. ‘Cause we’re _irrevocably bound_ , or whatever you called it.” To that, Castiel ducks his head and smiles. Gently, Dean tilts Castiel’s chin up with his finger. “I know you. You’re my best friend, Cas, and I know you wouldn't hurt me.”

Slowly, Castiel lets out a breath. “We should head home, after this,” he says. “I wish I could touch you without this… ravenous hunger.”

If only Dean couldn't laugh. “Welcome to puberty,” he says and smacks a kiss to Castiel’s lips. “Tell you what, when we get back, I’ll let you do whatever you want. I mean, maybe the cure’s something hokey like true love’s first fuck?”

Castiel doesn’t entertain him. Instead, dawning awareness crosses his face, his eyes bright and hopeful. “It could be.”

 _Huh_.

-+-

Whatever Dean expected out of this guy, his house certainly blows it out of the water—and then some. Standing in front of a large set of mahogany doors, he rubs his arms. “I’m underdressed,” he says. “Shit, I should’ve dressed up.”

“It’s certainly impressive,” Castiel says, looking up at the chandelier hanging from the porch’s second story ceiling. Crystal gleams in the sunlight, casting small rainbows across the brick-lined porch.

Glancing over his shoulder, Dean winces at how out of place the Impala looks, parked next to a jet-black Rolls Royce, worth more than Dean would ever make in several lifetimes. A dolphin juts up in the middle of a fountain, spouting water into the pool beneath it, the entire structure surrounded by cobblestones. The only time Dean has ever seen a house this large, with dozens of picture windows and columns and balconies, is in the movies, and none of them were ever owned by dragons. Just humans hoarding wealth for the hell of it, not a creature with a pool full of gold coins in his basement. Probably—Dean wouldn’t doubt it, just by looking at the place.

 _House call_ , Dean reminds himself. _Just a house call. See if the guy’s alive, get out_.

Except the moment Dean sees him, that hope is shot. Before he even gets the chance to knock, the door swings open, revealing arguably one of the most attractive men Dean has ever happened to meet. And friendliest, apparently. “Dean Winchester,” he announces, throwing Dean into a bone-crushing embrace. He smells like sandalwood and musk, with an underlying hint of burnt hickory—and in an instant, Dean remembers.

Seventeen years ago, Dean met Ignaas in the back of a smoky bar, Ignaas surrounded by women and Dean with barely any change in his wallet. Ignaas took him under his wing for the night, an apparent regular at said establishment, and kissed him in the front seat of his Rolls. Dean remembers the heat of his touch and the fire that engulfed him when Ignaas shoved him into the backseat, hot enough to steam the windows in the middle of July. They never spoke again after that night—John whisked him away, and Dean shoved the memory down.

And then, Sam threw Ignaas into his lap once again. Ignaas, with his hip-length blonde hair and silver eyes, and that same toothy grin that Dean initially passed off as a trick of the light.

Now, he understands.

“I haven’t seen you in what, twenty years?” Ignaas lets him go, dropping him back to his feet. _Was he always that tall_? “Boy, time flies, doesn’t it? And you.” He spins and hugs Castiel, while Castiel’s hands hang limp at his sides and a grunt squeezes its way from his lungs. “You smell like sunshine. I could put you on my mantle, angel. You’d look lovely next to my sconces.”

“I’m not sure I’d fit in with your hoard,” Castiel wheezes.

“Ah yes, my hoard.” Ignaas lets him go, facing Dean once again. “I’m sorry I didn't tell you when we met, Dean. Though, I suppose if I had, we wouldn’t’ve gotten along as well as we did.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says, and means it. Out of every monster Dean has ever met, Ignaas treated him with the most genuine kindness. Granted, dropping off the face of the earth the morning after didn't put him in any good favors, but times change, and people grow. Dean has learned to forgive more than forget. Most of the time, anyway.

“Still.” Ignaas offers a hand to Dean—and to Castiel, strangely. “I’d like to make it up to you. I know your brother called you to check on me, but I’m fine. Not all dragons are dangerous, as you’ve seen.” He throws Dean a wink. “Lay with me, for old times’ sake. And your boyfriend can join, if you wish.”

Dean’s face heats, heart dropping to his shoes. “He’s—” he stammers, tripping over his tongue. Ignaas grins wider; Castiel looks to the ceiling, his eyes rolled back into his head. “Look, Ignaas, last time was great and all—”

“Nonsense.” Ignaas takes Dean by the wrist and drags him inside, leaving Castiel to follow all too willingly. “Your pleasure is my pleasure. Besides, I want to show you my grotto.”

Dean balks. “You—You have a grotto?”

-+-

Ignaas’s entire house is the picture of opulence. Some dragons hide in caves and hoard precious objects, or people, or whatever their heart fancies. Ignaas hoards cash, and knows how to spend it. Said money can afford a massive California king bed with eight-hundred count sheets, and a black canopy draping over the sides, dampening the candles lit on every surface. Dean clings to said sheets and buries his sweating face in them, mouth slack.

Castiel strokes through Dean’s hair, catching his fingers on the short strands; he tugs, and Dean moans, lifting his head. “Listen to him,” he rumbles and guides Dean forward. Dean breathes against Castiel’s spit-slick cock, all he can do to keep himself sane. _I’m on fire_ , he thinks, his stomach tight. _I’m on fire, I’m on fire_ —

“That’s a good boy,” Ignaas says, his clawed hands wrapping around Dean’s waist. It’s a stark reminder that no one here is human. Both of them could kill him, and Dean might let them if it meant he could finally come. White-hot scales press against the back of his thighs, and Ignaas’s tail—his actual tail, with a forked tip and everything—wraps around his cock, intent on tormenting him for the rest of time. “I didn’t think you’d be able to take it, but you’re full of surprises now, aren’t you?”

“Full of something,” Dean muffles into Castiel’s thigh. Above him, Castiel chuckles and pulls him closer. “Feel like I’m gonna pop, God—”

“You’re doing fine,” Castiel says. Thumb to Dean’s lips, he opens Dean’s mouth, pressing his cock to Dean’s tongue. “I’m impressed, actually.”

“Yeah, yeah, so maybe I’m a slut.” Dean huffs a sigh while Ignaas laughs and shifts his hips. Wings flap. Dark shadows encircle Dean, and the sharp tips of Ignaas’s wings dig into the mattress for leverage. There’s no telling how many times he’s ripped holes in his bedding, but Ignaas can probably afford it and then some. “Y’know, it’s kinda rude to keep your guests waiting.”

“Oh, is it?” Ignaas chuckles. He nips Dean’s ear, raking his fangs over the curve of his throat from behind. “I’m so sorry. Should we put that mouth to good use, then?”

Dean opens his mouth to argue—but Ignaas thrusts, and Dean grabs Castiel’s hips to keep from screaming. Not from pain—far from it. Ignaas’s claws wrap around his waist and pull him upright, their thighs pressed flush, and Ignaas palms his chest while he works his cock in, again and again and _again_. Two sets of wings collide—Ignaas’s leather-and-bone and Castiel’s endless black feathers—as Castiel rises to his knees, kissing Dean with a passion he’s rarely ever felt.

And Dean groans and clings to him, scratching his nails into Castiel’s shoulders, his spine, anything and everything he can reach. All the while, Ignaas’s tail teases his cock, the wet, scalding length of it curled around him, pulsing and squeezing and driving Dean higher. “Please,” Dean pants, fighting for air. Castiel pulls away to leave a string of kisses on Dean’s neck, all before biting down and definitely leaving a bruise. “Please, hot—”

“You’re hot,” Ignaas taunts in glee. Rubbing one of his horns against Dean’s temple, he runs a hand down to Dean’s thigh, urging him to spread wider. _Any wider and I’m gonna break_. “You didn’t smell like this before. What’s your scent?”

“Cursed,” Dean says in all seriousness, but Ignaas laughs him off. Dean doesn’t blame him, either. Can’t really even bother, not when Ignaas’s cock strokes just where he wants it, a repeated press that blacks out his vision for a few precious moments. “ _Fuck_ , Cas, ‘m—”

“You’re doing so well,” Castiel breathes, heated, into Dean’s ear. He palms Dean’s chest where Ignaas isn’t holding him upright and kisses his nipple, drawing it between his teeth. Dean all but howls, thighs aching to close; Castiel holds him open with his knees, smirking into Dean’s collar. “Lovely.”

“Precious human,” Ignaas rumbles along with him. Slowly, he pulls out, leaving Dean to clench futilely. His tail unwinds, snapping in the air. “I want to see your face. Castiel, would you be a dear?”

Castiel wordlessly complies and helps Dean to turn over, his back to Castiel’s front and Ignaas between Dean’s legs. Half-lidded, he watches Ignaas stroke his cock—his fucking _monster_ cock, just as dark red as his wings, incredibly thick at the base and tapering to a blunt point—and presses the tip to his rim, sinking inside with little resistance. Dean moans and grapples with Castiel’s knees, his hands slipping.

Looking at Ignaas, Dean can’t tear his eyes away from his horns and the scales covering his cheeks, spreading down to his neck and shoulders. He burns like fire, leaving Dean to melt in his presence, a thick sheen of sweat coating his skin. His wings mingle with Castiel’s, black meeting red in a halfhearted struggle. Castiel hasn’t come, but Dean feels him pressed up against the small of his back, leaking and hard, and Dean wants him in his mouth again, wants to choke on him while Ignaas fucks him to tears.

Ignaas’s tail snaps into view again, winding its way around Dean’s cock and toying with his slit. He could slip inside, if he wanted—the more rational part of Dean’s brain overrides his baser desires, for once, and he shakes his head when Ignaas asks. He tried sounding once, with a girl back in Tacoma, and the aftereffects weren’t worth it.

“We could use you all day,” Ignaas says, his grin toothy and feral. Hot, scalding hands take Dean by the thighs and hoist him open, while Castiel strokes Dean’s chest, nails lightly raking across his skin. Dean follows him—follows them, as Ignaas shoves him onto his cock and Castiel shoves his fingers into Dean’s mouth, all of it far too much for him to keep up with. “Couldn’t we, Castiel? You should have seen him years ago, he was so lovely then, but he’s aged like fine bourbon. And just as tight.”

He punctuates the last statement with another thrust, the head of his cock nestling into Dean’s prostate. Again, again, _again_ , and Dean moans around Castiel’s fingers, the high reaching an inescapable peak. Ignaas leans in to bite the other side of Dean’s neck, the contact toppling Dean off the edge and into a haggard scream as his cock twitches with nothing left to spill. No pain—just the thrill of release and being held and surrounded by wings and warmth. Castiel praises him with honeyed words while Ignaas purrs, lapping away the blood seeping from his mark.

“Good boy,” Ignaas rumbles. His tail finally—blessedly—unwinds, then presses to Dean’s lips, seeking entrance. He tastes like salt and precome, a warm weight that Dean loves. “Castiel, can I come in him?”

Why he needs permission, Dean can’t even fathom. At least it was polite to ask. Castiel agrees with a nod, and Ignaas wastes no time in grinding back in, despite Dean’s oversensitivity and the ache in his legs. Another few strokes, and Ignaas’s claws sink in, digging pinpricks into Dean’s thighs when he comes; Dean feels him more than hears, an endless rush of come seeping from around his cock and painting Dean’s thighs. A mess—a total, disgusting mess, and Dean wants more of it, more of them.

“Good,” Castiel hums into his ear, pulling his fingers free. Ignaas’s tail slips out in time with his cock, the emptiness left behind sobering. Far too sobering for his liking. If Castiel notices, he doesn’t mention it, but holds Dean closer anyway. “Good, Dean.”

Dean nods, all he can think to do, and reaches up to thread his fingers through Castiel’s hair. Dawning crosses Castiel’s eyes, and he leans in, meeting Dean’s lips in a chaste kiss. _I want him_ , he thinks, tears stinging the corners of his eyes. _I love him so much_.

-+-

Rain barrels in off the horizon, turning a previously sunny sky to endless black clouds in minutes. Dean pulls off on a barren exit before the bottom falls out, parking under the awning of a Phillips 66 to wait for the inevitable. Lightning cracks and streaks across the sky, flickering the overhead fluorescents; wind gusts the sand and dirt, and pebbles dance across the two-lane. Down the road, cars race past on the interstate, oblivious to the lone station and the Motel 6 on the other side of the lot.

Dean wishes he was just oblivious. Dean wishes he didn't exist at all.

“When I was twenty-two,” Dean starts, legs hanging out of the car while he watches the shelf cloud roll in. “I met this woman. Probably ten years older than me, she taught at the community college and was determined to bring Farrah Fawcett’s hairstyle back. It was spring break, and we shacked up in a motel room for a week in Tampa while dad did who knows what.”

Leaning against the side of the Impala, Castiel crosses his arms. Lightning strikes a few miles off, the accompanying thunder loud and rolling. “Where are you going with this?”

“We had sex.” Dean waves his hands. “A _lot_ of sex. Every chance we got, on every piece of furniture, just… everywhere. And don’t get me wrong, it was fun and all, but I…” He stops and rubs his face. “That’s not me anymore, Cas. Sam’s been harping on me settling down for years, but he’s right. And the longer this thing’s in my blood, the more I don’t like it. Y’know, some people would think this is the best thing ever, but my ass hurts, my back’s one big knot, and if I have to get it up again, I might cry.”

Thunder cracks, the lights flicker and dim, and a siren blares in the distance. None of it feels like a good sign. “This is a long-winded way of telling me you’re interested in a monogamous relationship,” Castiel says as he rounds the car. “I was always under the impression you liked sex, though.”

Sighing, Dean pulls his legs back into the car and slams the door shut. “I’m not saying I don’t,” he says once Castiel slides inside as well. Rain begins to fall, an initial trickle followed by a downpour, a white sheet in front of the glow of the Impala’s headlights. “Sex is fun, always has been. But they’re not—they’re not you.” Hanging his head, Dean rests his forehead against the steering wheel. “Everyone I’ve ever fucked, it’s always been to distract me from all my bullshit, but I don’t want that with you.”

He turns in the darkness, warily looking at Castiel and the confusion in his eyes. “I want you, man. You’re it, and you’re always gonna be it. But these monsters keep showing up like I’m a fucking—bug zapper, and I feel like a cheap whore—”

“You’re not a whore.” Castiel palms Dean’s cheek, his warmth a balm, soothing the ache in Dean’s chest.

“But I’m cheap?” Dean asks with a small grin.

Castiel huffs and shakes his head. “Cheap in other ways, but not as a personality trait. Look at me.” Dean does, squinting as lightning flashes from behind him. “I’ve wanted you from the minute we met, albeit in entirely different ways. I suppose at first, I wanted reassurance that I wasn't straying from my mission. I wanted your friendship, your guidance, I wanted whatever you could give me, platonic or otherwise. And it always hurt, watching you, knowing that you never wanted me the same way.”

“I did,” Dean confesses. “I do. Shit, I still do. Didn’t realize it until…”

The wind picks up; overhead, the lights flicker back on, only to die again. In the dark, Castiel leans over and kisses him, and Dean claws at his coat, dragging Castiel closer. “I don’t intend to die again,” he rumbles against Dean’s lips. “I’m tired of deathbed confessions, Dean.”

Dean would laugh if Castiel’s tongue weren’t in his mouth. Whatever reply he had, Castiel takes it and chucks it out the window. Castiel backs him into the doorframe, his hands anywhere and everywhere, but mostly inside Dean’s shirt. A thumb swipes his nipple, and Dean moans, tugging Castiel’s hair by the root. He can’t get it up again, not tonight, but Castiel makes him want to try.

 _We’re in public_ , Dean’s mind screams. _There’s a tornado out there, you idiot_.

“You never got off,” Dean says instead, then takes Castiel’s lower lip between his own. He palms the definite bulge in Castiel’s slacks, feeling his hips rock, chasing the friction. “You gotta stop doing that, man. Gonna hurt yourself.”

“I can hold off,” Castiel says. Heatedly, he pushes Dean’s shirt up to expose his chest, mouthing at his nipples one after the other. Dean moans, biting his lip. “I went several million years without experiencing an orgasm, I think I can wait a few more hours.”

“Must’ve sucked,” Dean says between pants. “Wait—wait ‘til you’re in me. Not tonight, but maybe next _week_ — _Jesus_ , _Cas_ —”

Lightning strikes a light pole a few feet away, sending splinters of wood in every direction; Dean cowers, and Castiel covers him, lust replaced with the sudden need to hide. “I don’t wanna die,” Dean yells, half-hysteric. “I’m not writing this on my tombstone, Dean Winchester, Killed by Tornado—”

“It’s not a tornado,” Castiel says above the wind. Pressing their foreheads together, Castiel rests his elbows over the top of Dean’s head, acting as a shield; Dean wraps his arms around Castiel under his coat, tugging at the back of his button-down. “It’ll be over in two minutes, just hold on.”

 _Okay_ , Dean thinks, eyes pinched shut. The storm rages, and Dean holds on, as tight as he can—like he’ll never let go.

-+-

Sam is still awake by the time they pull into the garage, just barely. Dean walks in to find him half-draped across the library table, drooling into a priceless copy of some book Dean can’t bother to learn the name of, no matter how many times Sam hands him the thing. Dean could let him sleep—or he could slam his duffel on the table and wake him, sending a stack of papers onto the floor.

“Dragons,” Dean says, arms crossed while Sam wipes the spit from his face. “You sent me to check in on a dragon?”

“I thought it was a lead,” Sam explains, squinting in the lamplight. “There were some people missing hearts—”

“Bears, Sam.” Dean presses his fingers into his eyes. “It’s summer, and like it or not, bears are something that exist. Just because someone’s missing a heart doesn’t mean it’s a dragon, or a werewolf, or whatever.”

Sam sits back in his chair. “Still. It’s not like we come across dragons that aren’t out for blood. Doesn’t kill to look into it once in a while.”

 _Yes it does_ , Dean wants to say. “Next time,” Dean says, pointing a finger at him before breaking into a yawn, “you’re doing the house calls. Because not only did Ignaas fuck me into next week, but those missing people in Arkansas? Harpy.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Oh, gross, dude,” he says with a grimace. “Wait, how did you know Ignaas’ name?”

Dean’s face flushes. Even more when Castiel rejoins them in the room, stripped of his coat and donning a loose pair of sweatpants and an undershirt. “Because you sent us to his house,” Dean says, not entirely a lie. “Which, by the way, I’m pretty sure he owns an entire section of Oklahoma.”

“He also has an impressive collection of gold,” Castiel adds as he pulls several coins and a collection of necklaces from his pants pocket. All of them, he sets on the table while Dean gawks at him like he grew a tail. Sam’s jaw drops, a horrifying realization flitting across his face. “I may have found this lying around on our way out.”

“Cas, you can’t steal from a dragon,” Dean hisses, shoving down the pride bubbling in his chest. Castiel levels him with a stare and hands him a gold ring with an 18K stamped inside the band. Worst of all, it fits—and Castiel knows exactly what he’s doing.

Sam bolts upright, his chair clattering to the floor. “Did you—Are you having sex? Like, together?” he blurts. Dean wishes a sinkhole would open up. _Right now, any time now_. “Is this because of the curse—”

“Well, we sure as shit aren’t doing it apart,” Dean replies, at the same time as Castiel says, calm as ever, “It wasn’t related to the curse.”

Blinking, Sam braces his hands on the table. “Okay,” he says to himself, staring at the table. “So Cas was the third creature, right?”

Dean glances over to Castiel, who shrugs. “Not sure I’d count it,” Dean says, only to see Sam grimace in response. “C’mon dude, get your head out of the gutter—”

“No, you come on.” Huffing, Sam picks up his chair from the floor and sits down, hands buried in his hair. “Look, I don’t care, alright? But you’re supposed to be working cases, not—whatever you’re doing with people. Monsters.”

“I swear to God, it’s not like I want this.” Dean sits on the edge of the table, looking down at the gold band around his ring finger. “Everyone keeps biting me, man. It’s not fun.”

Standing at his side, Castiel palms Dean’s nape, rubbing the mark he left behind. Ignaas’, he healed before they left Oklahoma, and Dean can’t forget the jealousy in Castiel’s eyes as soon as they left the room. This mark is a claim; this mark means he’s Castiel’s. “I have a theory,” Castiel says after a minute. “Dean mentioned something the other day about experiencing mutual completion—”

“Oh my God, stop talking,” Dean says, entirely one word. “I was joking, I didn't think—”

“But it makes sense, gross as it is,” Sam admits. “Not that I enjoy having this conversation about my brother’s sex life, but maybe it’s like Sleeping Beauty, just with…” He rolls his eyes. “I’ll keep researching—”

“No, you’re going to bed.” Dean pats Sam’s shoulder. “Not because we’re gonna get freaky in here, but because I just found you drooling in a thousand-year-old book. Seriously, sleep, man.”

Sam, reluctantly, agrees. “Yeah, yeah. Just—keep it down, please?”

“We will,” Castiel says.

“Won’t guarantee it,” Dean tacks on with a wink. Sam’s shoulders slump until Dean offers him a shy wave. “Sleep tight.”

Nodding, Sam turns his back. “Night, Dean.”

-+-

The ring gleams in the dim light of Dean’s bedroom, always the same sheen no matter how he holds his hand. Lying on his stomach, Dean marvels at the band, more interested in it than sleep. Not that he can sleep in the first place, despite the nagging exhaustion in his bones. No, the ring keeps him awake, spurring anxious adrenaline in his stomach with nothing to latch onto.

 _I think he proposed_ , Dean tells himself on a loop, blinking wetly at his finger. _Did he propose_? It would make sense. That’s what people in love do, not angels with a penchant for kleptomania. No, Castiel stole the ring for a purpose, and that purpose was to hand it over, but probably not in the manner he intended. Dean keeps his other rings in a box in the bottom shelf of his dresser, hidden behind a pile of threadbare t-shirts and a misplaced sock or two. If he wore them again, maybe it would blend in and no one would pay attention. But, he doesn’t know how Castiel would take that.

Whatever he might think, it doesn’t compete with every other catastrophic thought spiraling through Dean’s head, ranging from _I need to leave_ to _I should give it back_. He opts for the former and throws on the only clean pair of jeans he can find, not bothering to change his shirt. Maybe if someone asks, he can lie and claim midnight is the best time of day to shop, or he forgot to pick something up at the post office. Neither the supermarket nor his PO box are open at this hour, but it’s an excuse.

One he thankfully doesn’t have to make. Sam conked out two hours ago, and when Dean makes it to the library, Castiel is asleep in an armchair, head lolled back and hands folded in his lap. Whether or not he’s faking is a question Dean doesn’t intend to find out. Sneaking out through the garage, Dean slides up the panel door and ducks through the gap, careful to shut it after. A brisk chill meets him on the other side, so unlike just hours earlier when the sun beat down on him and baked the Kansas plains.

Part of him longs for this, for the nights he can bask in the cold streaming through an open window, without the fear of something crawling in after him. A dream he’ll never see, loath as he is to admit it, but a dream nonetheless. Maybe in another life, one where he isn’t relegated to an underground bunker with irregular circadian rhythms and no hope for sunlight. Somehow, Castiel retains his tan, while Dean feels a shade paler every day he has to spend indoors.

“I need a vacation,” he says to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets. Somewhere sunny and warm, and away from the rest of the world.

For a while, Dean walks aimless through the streets of Lebanon, past empty houses and homes with their lights off for the evening. Only a few of the town’s streetlamps light his way, his shadow dancing on aging asphalt and concrete. Silence fills the world, interrupted by his bare footsteps.

His, and the nearly unheard crunch of boots in the grass. Dean walks on and keeps his eyes straight. It’s probably someone out for a midnight stroll, or the neighborhood cat Castiel insists he doesn’t feed despite the bag of Iams hidden behind the Packard’s left rear tire. He could also blame it on an active imagination, or his ears creating noise to fill in the gap.

But it doesn't stop. Dean tempts fate and looks over his shoulder, finding a row of empty homes and even emptier windows. He stops and breathes, pulling his hands from his pockets. The only weapon he has is the switchblade, not nearly enough to kill whatever has decided to follow him, if worse comes to worse. _Please be the wind_ , he prays, _please be the wind_.

For a long, terrifying second, nothing happens. The wind doesn’t blow, the grass doesn’t move, and the owl sitting in a dying apple tree watches him with yellow eyes.

The pain hits him first. Not physical touch, but the sting of a bite, gnawing and ripping into his throat with hunger. Dean flails and grabs for whatever he can, namely a chunk of hair and the arm around his chest. Blood spills down his shirt while the creature— _another fucking monster_ —drags him into the grass, tossing him into the dirt. He can’t breathe—can’t even scream when the thing climbs on top of him and bites down, deepening the wound and taking his veins with it.

 _Vampire_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully. Stabbing it doesn’t work, and neither does kicking it. If anything, the thing holds him down and sinks its teeth in. White hot fire burns through his veins, overshadowing the sensation of his own flesh being ripped away. Copper touches his tongue; white tickles the edge of his vision. “You’re not sending me back there,” Dean manages through his own blood, clawing at whatever skin he can reach. There’s not much. Out of every vampire he ever met, of course this one had to wear leather in the middle of summer. “’M not goin’ back, hear me?”

The vampire doesn’t answer. It does, however, retract its fangs, its head falling away before the rest of it collapses, pinning Dean to the ground. The white creeps closer while a man hovers close, whispering—shouting, maybe—words that Dean can’t make out. _Blood loss_ , he thinks, and for a blissful moment, he closes his eyes and feels nothing. No pain, no agony, no sorrow, just the knowledge that if he has to die, then at least Castiel saw him off.

Until the world comes into view, and Dean snaps upright, accidentally inhaling blood along the way. His own, thankfully—hopefully? “Jesus fucking shit,” he curses and feels his throat, finding nothing but unblemished skin. No hunk missing, no severed veins or broken bones. Just skin—and above him, Castiel glares at him like he might as well be the stupidest human on earth. “The fuck are you doing here?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Castiel echoes—and Dean laughs, half-crazed. “Dean, answer me—”

“Jesus Christ.” Dean spits blood into the grass and wipes his mouth. “I couldn’t sleep, okay?” Lying. Lying works. Lying helps him forget about the ring and how he almost bit it in Castiel’s arms. “Can a man take a walk once in a while?”

Castiel scowls and wipes his bloodied hand on his pants. “You were dying, I deserve the right to ask,” he says and stands. He offers a hand, and Dean takes it, letting Castiel pull most of the weight. “What were you doing out here?”

 _Being attacked by the only vampire in Kansas_ , Dean wants to say. Whatever he says won’t be enough, lie or otherwise. In the end, Castiel always knows, or finds out along the way. “I panicked,” Dean admits. “I kept looking at the ring and I panicked, okay? You can’t fucking… propose like that, or whatever you did. Did you propose?”

“I didn’t get on my knees, but I might have,” Castiel says. Forcibly, he takes Dean’s hand and bends every finger except the one with the band. Still as shiny as ever, but flecked in red. Nothing that won’t wash off with some effort. Dean half-expects him to take it off and throw it away, like the act of dying revokes a proposal, but instead, Castiel touches it, spinning the ring to the unstained side. “I didn’t think you’d keep it.”

Exhaling, Dean touches Castiel’s wrist. “I’m not just gonna throw it away. I’m not that much of a douchebag.”

Castiel smiles, fleeting. “Do you accept, then? My proposal.”

Rather than reply, Dean kisses him, bloody teeth and tongue and all. Probably the most disgusting kiss he’s ever had, but Castiel apparently doesn’t mind, given how he grips Dean’s shirt and sighs against his lips. “Kinda shitty to die before the wedding.”

Shaking his head, Castiel threads their fingers together and presses a kiss to Dean’s temple. “We should get rid of the body. And call Rowena.”

Great, more work to do. Groaning, Dean looks down at the corpse and kicks it, just for the hell of it. “There better be a nap in there somewhere.”

-+-

Calling does nothing, except give Dean a headache and leave him wondering why he bothered in the first place. “So I can’t leave the house, basically,” Dean says into his palms. Somewhere in the room, Castiel slides books back onto the library shelves. “First it’s sex, then it’s ripping my throat out. I don’t even wanna know what comes next.”

“I’d rather not think about it,” Castiel echoes. The last book in place, Castiel leaves the shelves and stands at Dean’s back, a looming presence that Dean hasn’t been able to shake in over a decade. Not that he wants to, either. “I’ve scanned through every book here, and Sam says he searched online, and neither of us came up with any ways to counteract the curse. Though,” he chuckles, “I may have unearthed a book full of… less than tasteful spells.”

Over his shoulder, Castiel hands Dean a small leather-bound book—and the first word Dean reads sends heat to his face, among other regions. “Dude,” he wheezes, flipping through. “Dirty spells?”

“Apparently, one of the Men of Letters hid it in a false drawer behind a Bible,” Castiel says, running his hands over the cotton of Dean’s shirt to sink beneath the collar. Dean practically melts the minute Castiel touches his bare skin, kneading the muscles at his nape. No biting or kisses, no nails trying to carve a name into his flesh—just warmth and closeness, the only thing he craves. “There’s one involving an orgasm that lasts ten minutes. Though, thinking about it, I don’t know if a human heart could sustain that level of euphoria for so long.”

“And I don’t plan on finding out.” Maybe ten years ago, he would’ve given it a try, but for now, he shoves the book in his pocket. Just in case. “So what’re you thinking? ‘Cause I can’t stay locked down here for a month, Cas. I need sunlight, and food, and air that hasn’t been recycled a hundred times.”

Castiel hums and digs his thumbs into a knot at the base of Dean’s skull; Dean kicks the floor and bites his lip, a moan caught in his throat. “We could always try my suggestion,” he says, bearing down on the knot.

Grabbing the table, Dean fights down a whine. “I just got fucked like, twelve hours ago,” he says, or tries, his voice cracking halfway through. “By a dragon. Or do you not remember?”

“I remember.” Castiel lets up and switches sides, intent on exploiting every one of Dean’s pressure points. This time, Dean does moan—and loud. “It’s just a thought.”

“Bet you haven’t stopped thinking about it, huh?” On shaky legs, Dean pulls away from Castiel and stands, hands braced on the table. And Castiel sways back into his orbit, tucking Dean up against his chest and pressing a string to kisses to his exposed nape. _The curse_ , he reminds himself, _you need to get rid of the curse_. “C’mon, Cas, I can’t…”

“I think you could, if you wanted to,” Castiel says, every bit the truth. “The only thing stopping you is—”

“Age,” Dean snorts. “I’m old, man. My dick needs a break, and I need a shower. I’m not stinking up the bed with vamp blood.”

Castiel hums a long, low noise before kissing Dean’s neck. Just a peck, a sign of acceptance. “I’ll see you in the morning, then,” he promises, giving Dean’s shoulder one last squeeze. “Goodnight, Dean.”

Slowly, Dean nods and listens to Castiel wander off, his shoes clicking down the hall. _I love him_ , he thinks, holding the ring close to his heart. “Night, Cas.”

-+-

Castiel does see him in the morning, technically. More like twenty minutes later, and only because Castiel decides to occupy the left side of Dean’s bed, like he belongs there. He does belong there—he’s always belonged there, but Dean has always been too afraid to ask. Toweling his hair dry in the doorway, Dean freezes at the sight of Castiel sitting on the edge of the mattress, a small wooden box in his lap and a collection of silver rings and bracelets in his hands.

 _Crap_.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you privacy?” Dean asks as he closes the door, tossing the towel in the hamper by the sink.

In nothing but his briefs, he falls onto his side of the bed and stares at the ceiling. Idly, Castiel rolls the rings around in his hand before putting everything back in the box, save for one. A gold band in desperate need of cleaning, with a set of initials stamped into the inside: MW. “I’m surprised you never gave this back to her,” he says, toeing his shoes off. He lies next to Dean in his pajamas, placing the ring between them. “You’ve had it all your life.”

With a sigh, Dean rolls over to face him, avoiding his eyes. “She stopped wearing it a few months before she died,” he admits, a confession he’s never told anyone, not even Sam. “I noticed it, or I think I did. She wore it for the first few months when he’d leave, but after a while, she just… stopped. And I knew why, but I was a kid. I thought dad would come back, because he loved us.” He smothers a yawn into the pillow. “Some fucked up kind of love.”

Castiel doesn’t speak. For a while, Dean listens to the aging air conditioner blow overhead and his own quiet breathing. “I don’t think she’s dead,” Castiel says, eventually. He slides the ring onto his finger and takes Dean’s hand. “If she’s on the other side, then there’s a chance we may be able to save her.”

Dean wants to. Desperately, Dean wants to rip the rift back open and find Mary, but he doesn’t know where to begin. Jack can only offer so much help, and Castiel isn’t strong enough to jump worlds for the fun of it. Angels won’t help, and demons were never an option. “I just got her back,” Dean mumbles. “She was my mom again, and she’s just… gone. Haven’t really had the time to process it, between you and… everything.”

“You have faith.” Gentle, Castiel palms Dean’s cheek, curling his fingers into Dean’s hair. He smiles, not that familiar one of joy that Dean knows so well, but of sadness, of empathy. “We’ll find her, Dean. But you’re allowed to grieve her loss, whether it’s temporary or permanent.”

Nodding, Dean curls into Castiel’s space, drawing an arm around his waist while Castiel does the same. The lamp on the nightstand flickers off, and a heavy weight settles over Dean’s hip, smelling faintly of fresh linens and the lingering storm. “When I was six,” he whispers, “we were in a motel. Sam was sick with something, and dad was gone for three nights, and all I could think about was how much I wanted her back. And I saw this… light, in the corner of the room. Like someone turned on a switch until dad got back.” He sniffles. “Was that you?”

“You should sleep,” Castiel says, but doesn’t deny it. Rather, he covers Dean’s toes with his wing and kisses his forehead, a promise if Dean has ever felt one. “Goodnight.”

 _I knew it_. “Night, Cas.”

-+-

It takes another few days to work up the nerve to ask Castiel. No matter how many times they get handsy at night, or how many times Castiel sucks bruises into his throat for the hell of it, Dean still can’t utter those two words— _Fuck me_. Because as much as he wants this—has wanted it for well over a decade, ever since Castiel looked at him in Bobby’s kitchen with a gaze that made Dean want to drop to his knees—he trips over his tongue every time. Castiel is an angel. Castiel is holy fire and light and could snap Dean back to Hell if he wanted.

If, being the key word. Hell hasn’t been a threat in years, and if anything, Castiel would rather be at his side than anywhere else. It’s comforting, Dean thinks, to know that an angel is always watching over him—and will watch over him, for the rest of his life.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Dean fiddles with the wrapper in his hands and tries to work up the motivation to walk to Castiel’s room. He has time, for the moment, and that clock is ticking. Sam took Jack up to Hastings thirty minutes ago, leaving him and Castiel alone. But Dean can’t move his feet, can’t unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. _It’s just sex_ , he tells himself. But it’s sex with _Castiel_ , angel of the lord and apparent fiancé, if Castiel’s proposal is anything to go by. They can’t get married anyway, not in the eyes of the United States government. Dean is dead, and Castiel doesn’t have a social security number.

Does God even preside over interspecies marriages?

Sighing, Dean pockets the condom and checks for the bottle in his robe. _Cas’ bed has better leverage_ , he reasons before he stands, shaking along the way. Memory foam may be great for sleeping, but doing anything on his knees limits his movement. Castiel never changed out his mattress from the mid-century monstrosity that the Letters left behind. _Just walk in there. Get off your ass and walk in there._

He does. In a panic, but Dean leaves the sanctuary of his bedroom and crosses the hall. He doesn’t bother knocking before he opens Castiel’s door, only to find him lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with his hands folded over his stomach. Still dressed in his sweats, smelling faintly of sweat from the gym. Or, Dean supposes the gym. Though for all Dean knows, Castiel could be running marathons every day for the hell of it.

Castiel sits up slowly, curiosity on his face. “What is it?” he asks, leaning back on his elbows.

Dean doesn’t bother to answer and shuts the door. Privacy—he could be in a locked storm shelter, and it still wouldn't be enough privacy for what he’s about to do. Blow jobs were easier than this. Hell, getting Castiel naked at Ignaas’ place was easier than this, because it wasn’t just the two of them.

Now, they’re alone, and Dean craves him.

“You still wanna break that curse?” he asks in lieu of those two words, cracking his best grin. Castiel cocks a brow at him. “C’mon, Cas. This is your shot here, don’t make me say it.”

“I’d like to hear you ask.” Castiel smirks. _You smug asshole_.

Extending a hand, Castiel motions for Dean to join him, and Dean crawls onto the mattress, kneeing his way over Castiel’s lap. Wide hands settle over his hips, then work toward his belt, undoing it with ease. Swallowing, Dean looks away as Castiel pushes the robe open to unveil bare skin and nothing else. “I feel like a slut,” Dean says, low. “Never really walked into someone’s room buck ass naked before.”

Castiel chuckles and slides his robe from his shoulders, letting it pool on the mattress. “I find that hard to believe,” he hums and nuzzles Dean’s throat, pressing a kiss to the purpled mark he left this morning. Dean shivers at the feel of stubble scraping against tender skin, followed by lips, wet and warm and soothing. “You’ve walked out of the bathroom multiple times while I was in the room.”

Dean laughs, partly manic. “I didn’t know you were there, dude. I don’t make a habit out of walking around in my birthday suit.”

Soft hands run up the ladder of Dean’s ribs, then inward, thumbs teasing his nipples. “You think it makes you vulnerable,” Castiel says. “I’ve seen you at your barest, Dean. I’ve held your soul in my arms, I felt you cry out to the heavens, begging for forgiveness. Nothing you show me now can remotely compare.”

“Wow.” Blinking, Dean opens his mouth—then closes it when Castiel bites down, a fresh sting working its way through Dean’s veins. “Really know how to go deep, don’t you?”

“I can go deeper,” Castiel says, a question in his eyes. _Will you let me_? “Is this purely to break the curse, or would you like to lay with me?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Both, dude. Wouldn't be in your lap if I didn’t wanna ride you.” He spares Castiel a kiss, feeling him melt against his lips. “You remember our word?”

Castiel nods, hands circling Dean’s hips. “I won’t hurt you, Dean.”

“I know.” Tenderly, he presses his lips to Castiel’s forehead, fighting the shiver in his hands. “But I’m freaked out, okay? Every time, someone tries to rip my throat out, or I bend some way that’s gonna hurt the next day, like I’m some kinda… personal sex doll.”

“You’re not a sex doll.” Pursing his lips, Castiel places a hand square over Dean’s heart. “And I’m not planning on treating you like one. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do whatever you ask.”

“Just—Jesus.” Dean rubs his eyes, biting back a laugh. “I’m not supposed to be the blushing bride here.”

“You are blushing,” Castiel tacks on—and Dean shoves him onto the mattress for his troubles.

Kissing Castiel is like second nature, now that Dean can do it any time he wants. Now that he’s allowed to touch something so divine without any consequences. And Castiel lets him, and holds on just as tightly, stroking down the length of Dean’s spine and eliciting shivers across his skin. At some point, Castiel flips him onto his back, Dean’s head hitting the pillows and the air rushing from his lungs.

Castiel belongs here, he thinks—in his arms with his lips on Dean’s, their bodies pressed flush. But Dean wants skin on skin. He tugs at Castiel’s shirt, and works to wrench it over his shoulders, while Castiel refuses to lose contact—and ends up with his shirt around his neck and Dean’s hands stuck inside. “You gotta stop,” Dean pants between kisses, “for like, two seconds, please—”

Nipping Dean’s lip, Castiel finally pulls off with a grunt; Dean pulls his shirt off and tosses it off the bed. “Clothes are entirely unnecessary,” Castiel complains, already half to tugging his sweatpants off. “And entirely inconvenient. I’m starting to feel temperatures now, and my clothes are too warm—”

Dean watches, lips parted, as Castiel’s cock springs free, half-hard and beginning to weep at the tip. While he finishes, Dean reaches into the pocket of his robe and pulls out the lube he stashed away, along with two condoms. All the while, Castiel keeps complaining, his words flying right over Dean’s head. Because what Dean wants is only feet away, and Dean takes the initiative and seizes it, taking Castiel’s cock into his fist just to shut him up.

And it works—too easily, in fact, based on Castiel’s kiss and the teeth threatening to bruise his lip. “Finger me,” Dean pants. “Like Ignaas did, c’mon—”

“Don’t say his name here,” Castiel growls—an actual growl, the first threat out of Castiel he’s heard in a while. Not promising violence, but a warning—of punishment, if he disobeys. _God, I hope so_. “We’re alone this time, Dean. I’m the only one who can touch you.”

 _Oh_. “Yeah.” Swallowing, Dean closes his eyes and lays his head back, fighting back his shame. Of wanting this, of wanting Castiel as badly as he does—his lips, his cock, his _touch_. A slick finger traces down his cleft in time with Castiel’s kiss, teasing his rim with the slightest bit of pressure. “C’mon,” Dean begs, tightening his grip on Castiel’s cock. “C’mon, you gonna fuck this thing outta me?”

This time, when Castiel bites his neck, Dean expects it—and moans, open-mouthed and loud. Castiel wastes no time in pushing inside, his index finger shoved deep and curled where Dean wants it, has wanted it for days. Frantic, Dean releases Castiel’s cock and wraps an arm around him, wet fingers slipping. “Another,” he breathes against Castiel’s ear. Castiel kisses the bruise, a spark of Grace singing through his skin. “Cas, please…”

“Impatient,” Castiel says, low—

And pulls out, much to Dean’s lament. Before Dean can do something scandalous like scream, Castiel drops to lie at Dean’s side and tucks his bicep under Dean’s head, giving him both access to Dean’s cock and his neck. The former of which, he ignores, and fiddles with the lube, pouring well more than enough into his palm. “Touch me,” Castiel says directly into Dean’s ear, all heat and lust and everything that makes Dean ache for him. Two fingers tease his rim, tracing wet circles across his skin before sinking inside.

Years ago, after Castiel dragged him out of Hell and smirked at him in Bobby’s kitchen, Dean spent the rest of the night jerking off in bed, trying to beat Castiel out of his mind. Several times, he imagined how Castiel’s fingers would feel in him, thick and full of holy wrath as they took him apart. Feeling it now doesn’t compare. All of his fantasies burst into flame as Castiel shoves in deep, thumb pressed to his perineum while he curls inward; Dean’s cock jumps and drools onto his stomach, and Dean barely holds back a groan, his vision sparking behind closed eyelids.

“Touch me,” Castiel growls, drawing Dean’s earlobe between his teeth.

Dean does without thinking, marveling at how Castiel’s cock leaps in his fist; even without looking, he can tell it’s big, veiny in a way he never really expected, and his gut twists with the thought. “That’s it,” Castiel hums. He teases Dean with a third finger before slotting it alongside the others, mindful of the stretch. Head thrown back, Dean parts his thighs wider, reveling in the heavy press between his legs, all while he idly strokes Castiel’s cock. “You’re making me wait.”

“Dude.” Dean barely manages to hold back a laugh. “’M not a girl, you gotta put in the effort.”

“I should make you do it.” And Castiel pulls free, smearing his fingers down Dean’s ribs, just to taunt him. “Not that I don’t enjoy this, but I’m tired of waiting.”

Snorting, Dean bats at Castiel’s hair. “Now who’s impatient, huh?”

Castiel purses his lips. “How lenient are you on condoms?”

That’s—a good question, actually. Normally Dean would insist on it, but Castiel isn’t human, and as far as he knows, monsters can’t carry any of the diseases that would knock him out. And it’s Castiel—probably the last man Dean will ever sleep with for the rest of his life. “Knock yourself out,” he decides and settles in. “Just like—don’t get me pregnant or anything.”

Dean can practically hear Castiel roll his eyes. “Would you like to be?”

Heat floods to Dean’s face. Not a discussion he wants to have now—or ever, if he can help it. “Just fuck me, will you?” Dean flicks his ear. “My dick’s gonna fall off if you don’t do _something_.”

And he does—Castiel shoves his fingers in Dean’s mouth, tasting of clean skin and sweat and thankfully not the mess of lube he painted Dean’s chest with. Dean sucks them in without a thought, splitting two with his tongue while Castiel works his way between Dean’s thighs, spreading him wide around his hips. “You’ve never been one to shut your mouth,” Castiel comments idly. One-handed, he pops open the lube and pours some into his palm, stroking his cock with it. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“I’m lucky,” Dean muffles, grinning. “Tryin’ to get lucky, but you keep takin’.”

Castiel hums, low in his throat, and pulls his fingers free. “You like hearing my voice,” he says, cock in hand. He rubs the thick head of it against Dean’s rim and pushes in, just the tip at first; Dean bites his hand, fisting the bedding with the other. Another inch, and Castiel takes Dean by the hips, pulling him onto his cock. “You like it when I talk to you.”

“Shut up,” Dean moans.

Relaxing is probably the worst part, but Castiel makes up for it once he’s fully seated, shoving Dean’s hand away and replacing it with his lips. And Dean clings to him, arms around Castiel’s shoulders as Castiel begins to rock into him. He lets himself fall into Castiel’s pace, panting into Castiel’s mouth while he frantically strokes himself. He won’t last long—they won’t last, not at the rate they’ve been going the past few days, between Castiel’s wandering hands and the teeth marks tattooing his skin.

In his fantasies, Dean hopes they never fade. Part of him likes the claim, likes seeing them in the mirror and running his fingers over the indentations. Proof that Castiel was here, bruises and all. Castiel takes advantage of it, latching onto Dean’s throat while he thrusts harder; skin against skin echoes through the room, coupled with Dean’s constant groans and the growl working its way up Castiel’s throat. “Fuck me,” Dean pants, clawing into Castiel’s shoulder blade. “Get in there, c’mon.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel says, winded and nearly feral. He latches onto Dean’s neck, still soft despite the roughness of his touch, and sucks an even deeper mark, all while Dean jerks himself, fist slick and dripping with precome. “Dean, _Dean_ —”

“That’s it.” Dean gasps for any air he can find; his hips twitch, thighs straining where Castiel pins him open, keeping him spread wide. “That’s it, Cas, _fuck_ , that’s it—”

Palms to the backs of Dean’s knees, Castiel rears up and hoists Dean open—and Dean feels it, the gradual rise and fall through his gut, the claustrophobia creeping into his limbs. Frantic, Dean grabs for Castiel’s knee, his fingers slipping on slick skin. “Yes,” Dean manages, breath caught in his lungs. “Yes, _yes_ , Castiel, _there_ —”

Castiel smothers Dean’s name into a kiss. The last thing Dean tastes before he comes is sweat and the faintest hint of lavender clinging to Castiel’s tongue, both flooding his senses while he fills his hand, most of it spilling through onto his stomach. Worse, Castiel doesn’t kiss him, or fuck him through it—he pulls out, flipping Dean onto his stomach before he can even get his breath back. Twin hands press his chest into the mattress as Castiel shoves back in, igniting a second high in Dean and sending him spiraling higher.

Because before, Castiel was holding back. Now, Castiel fucks him with abandon, and Dean revels in it as he comes down. His cock twitches against his stomach, futilely spilling come into the bedspread; touching it sends shivers down Dean’s spine, a sweet oversensitivity that he craves, especially in moments like these, when he can actually enjoy it. “Fuck me,” he begs, like Castiel would do anything different. “That all you got?”

“Don't tempt me,” Castiel says. He lets up the pressure on Dean’s back and grabs the headboard, using it for more leverage. Dean bites the pillow, stifling a scream.

Futilely, Dean’s cock attempts to stiffen again, but mostly stays soft between his legs, leaking precome and jerking every time Castiel thrusts at the right angle. If only he was younger, then he could really enjoy this to the fullest; now, he whines in overstimulation, and almost misses the moment when Castiel falters, hips stuttering from their punishing rhythm. Another few thrusts, and Dean feels him thicken, then spill, flooding his senses.

Only after Castiel finishes does he let go of the bed, opting to fall on top of Dean rather than lie on his side. His cock slips free, something Dean will regret later when he has to clean up the mess and head back to his bed, preferably with Castiel at his side. Gently, Castiel peppers Dean’s nape with kisses, then slows. Confused, maybe, or regretful—Dean sure hopes it’s the former. “You need a shower.”

Or, insulting. “Are you saying I stink?” Lifting his head, Dean looks over his shoulder to see Castiel looking at him, eyes bright. Oh— _Oh_ , the curse. “It’s gone?”

“I believe I’ve ‘fucked it out of you,’” Castiel says with mirth, then kisses Dean’s ear. “I should probably heal your neck.”

“Nah.” Wiggling, Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s pillow. “Still got a while before anyone gets back, if you wanna…” _Try again, fuck me again. See if I can come twice in an hour_.

Smiling, Castiel kisses the back of Dean’s neck. “I’ve always wanted to see how you look on my lap,” he murmurs.

Dean’s cock spasms, the sudden need to fill overwhelming. “Okay,” Dean says, voice pitched high. “Yeah, I can—Yeah, Cas.”

-+-

Dean hears Sam coming before he sees him.

Standing in front of the refrigerator in nothing but his robe, Dean holds the door open and pointedly stares at a wilting head of lettuce, wishing the last five minutes didn't happen. Because of course Sam came home early, and of course Jack needed to ask Castiel something, and barged in without bothering to knock, leading to an embarrassingly shaped bruise to the back of Dean’s thigh. Castiel still hasn’t come out of the shower, and really, Dean doesn’t blame him. If he weren’t starving and considering eating his weight in microwavable pancakes, Dean would be right there with him.

Sam, thankfully, gives him a few minutes before he speaks. Granted, Sam leaning against the island doesn’t help his nerves, but Dean is grateful for the silence nonetheless. Until Sam speaks—then, Dean wants to run. “I’m too old to explain this to him,” Sam says, infinitely as frustrated as Dean feels. “He’s like, two weeks old, and he keeps asking why you were screaming—”

“Jesus Christ.” Slamming the door shut, Dean thumps his head against the freezer. “I’m not doing this, Sam.”

“Well, someone needs to.” Arms crossed, Sam purses his lips. “We never got the talk from dad. The most he did was throw me a Penthouse. I was thirteen, I wasn’t even interested in girls yet.”

Dean shakes his head. “You think that’s bad? Fifteen, I walk in on him and one of my teachers, and when I asked about it later?” He points to a scar above his eyebrow, silvered and barely visible with age. “Never mentioned it again.”

“Still.” Sighing, Sam scrubs his face. “I think he’d get it if you told him you’re in love with Cas—”

“Don’t—Not out loud,” Dean hisses. Heat floods to his face, steaming the stainless steel under his forehead. Reluctantly, he turns and finds Sam now sitting on the dining table, and Castiel in the doorway, wearing Dean’s pajamas and sporting several hickeys on either side of his neck. All his doing. _There’s more where that came from_.

“It’s not exactly a secret,” Castiel says, taking the two steps into the kitchen. Dean refuses to take his eyes off him as Castiel crosses the room, willfully oblivious to Sam’s presence. Raking his fingers through Dean’s mussed hair, he pulls Dean into a kiss, his tongue tasting of cheap spearmint. “Though I know it’s difficult for you to admit to it.”

“Hey.” Dean jabs a finger into Castiel’s sternum. “I can admit to it whenever I want.”

Over Castiel’s shoulder, Sam laughs. “Dude, the last thing I’ve ever heard you say you loved was that pie we had last month in Boise.”

“And it was a damn good pie,” Dean shoots back, half smothered in another kiss. “Cas, I thought you said this was over—”

“It is.” Castiel grazes his thumb over the fine hairs dotting the back of Dean’s neck. Dean shivers on instinct, forehead resting against Castiel’s. “I know, Dean. You don’t have to say it.”

 _But I want to_. “Later,” he promises, quiet enough that Sam—hopefully—can’t hear. “Because apparently, I have to go talk to Jack. Really,” he pulls away to glare at Sam, “we’re gone for three days and you can’t teach him how to knock?”

“I didn’t think you’d be doing _that_ ,” Sam accuses. “Seriously, do we need to set ground rules?”

“No, we need common sense.” Dean rubs his eyes. “Alright. You,” he points to Castiel, “come with me. Since Sammy’s slacking on his parenting duties, we have to go tell Jack that we were wrestling.”

Silence—then, Sam laughs, echoing off the kitchen walls. Castiel joins in and slides an arm around Dean’s waist. Softening, Dean loops his around Castiel’s neck, holding him closer. _This is alright_ , he thinks, kissing the top of Castiel’s head. _We’ll get through this together_.

 _Because I love him_.

**Author's Note:**

> Congrats, we've made it to another DCBB season! And this is also my 200th work for Destiel, so to mark today's canon declaration, here's a piece of pure filth! This is a massive coincidence and I was expecting the worst out of last night, but instead I was left incredibly hopeful! We'll see how it plays out for the finale!
> 
> But anyway! I wanna say a special thanks to Bexy as always for betating, and for her, Ana and Julie for yelling every time I sent them all something about it. Also to my absolutely wonderful artist [Gio](https://sketching-fox.tumblr.com/post/634059838379458560/dean-cas-big-bang-posting-day-and-what-a-day-to) who was a pleasure to work with and has wows again with her amazing art. Excuse me while I weep ;A;
> 
> This is something I've wanted to write for years and struggled immensely with it through multiple variations and writer's block, but it's finally finished, and I hope y'all like it just as much as I do! 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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